
Class ^^^-nZ 

Book 7.'r'^ 

Gcpight N"_ 



ccEXRicur DEPOsm 



TWENTY- TWO ESSAYS 
OF 

WILLIAM HAZLITT 



SELECTED AND EDITED BY 

ARTHUR BEATTY 

UNIVERSITY OF WISCONSIN 



D. C. HEATH & CO., PUBLISHERS 

BOSTON NEW YORK CHICAGO 



\ 



^ 



%<' 



"-%K 



Copyright, 19 i8, 

By D. C. Heath & Co. 

1l7 



JAN 16 1918 

©CI.A492U02 



PREFACE 

^--^ These twenty-two essays are chosen with the main purpose 
of illustrating the prose style of William Hazhtt and of furnish- 
ing material for its fruitful study by those who are teach- 
ing or learning the difficult art of using the English tongue 
3 in written discourse. For this reason, certain of Hazlitt's 
■- important activities, such as criticism and lectures, are 
' imperfectly displayed, as they have httle direct appeal to the 
average student; while other aspects of his mind, represented 
by his autobiographical and reflective essays, are very fully 
represented, because experience has shown that here he joins 
hands familiarly with the veriest tyro in self-expression and 
readily becomes a guide and an example. 

Besides the autobiographical and the reflective essays, 
there is a group in which the problems of style are dealt 
with in Hazlitt's own trenchant way. A study of these 
essays should go far towards showing the student that the 
mystery of writing is one which has been deemed worthy of 
study by one of the keenest and most flexible representa- 
tives of Enghsh prose. 

The volume is issued for the reason that no existing selec- 
tion affords just the right sort of materials; and it is hoped 
that the '' well-wishing" body of students of our English 
tongue may welcome the present venture for bringing them 
under the provocative enthusiasm of Hazlitt's subject-mat- 
ter and the Hquid cadences of his style. The welcome should 
be the warmer when the student finds that these essays are 
not chosen from among the mediocre work of Hazlitt to fit 
any supposed low level, but are the author's most excellent, 
most famous, and most characteristic work. 

The Introduction gives in brief form an analysis of the 
personality of HazHtt, which may aid the student in ap- 
preciating the spirit in which he worked, and the nature and 
value of his theme. The second part presents in brief form 



IV PREFACE 

what seem to be the leading characteristics of his style. The 
Outline of his Life contains the main dates and publications 
of his career. In the Notes, besides other matter, there will 
be found the sources of most of the abundant references and 
quotations. But only the minimum of information is given 
in any case, and only those references are explained which 
would otherwise leave the connection of thought obscure. 
The piling up of curious information has been scrupulously 
avoided. The text is printed, foot-notes, quotations, and 
all, without alterations or simplifications, as it appears in 
the splendid and indispensable edition of Waller and Glover. 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 



Introduction I. Personality and Theme vii 

II. Style xi 

Outline of Hazlitt's Life xv 

Selected Bibliography xvii 

Essays 1 

/. Autobiography mid Reminiscence 

My First Acquaintance with Poets 1 

On Reading Old Books 22 

Whether Genius is Conscious of its Powers 35 

A Farewell to Essay- Writing 48 

//. Philosophy and Reflection 

On Classical Education 57 

On the Ignorance of the Learned 61 

The Indian Jugglers 71 

On Going a Journey 87 

Why Distant Objects Please 98 

On the Disadvantages of Intellectual Superiority 109 

On the Knowledge of Character 121 

On the Fear of Death 139 

On the Spirit of Obligations 150 

On the FeeUng of Immortality in Youth 163 

Merry England 176 

On Disagreeable People 190 

III. The Art of Prose 

On Familiar Style 204 

On the Prose-Style of Poets 212 

IV. Criticism 

On a Landscape of Nicolas Poussin 228 

Mr. Coleridge ^. . . 236 

Mr. Wordsworth 248 

Hamlet 260 

Notes 267 

V 



INTRODUCTION 

I. Personality and Theme 

It may be said that Hazlitt's peculiar bent in life can be 
explained by the fact that he came of a stock of Dissenters. 
Dissenters in England are mainly those who are opposed not 
only to the tenets of the Church of England, but also to 
the dominant policies of the ruling class, which the Church 
so largely represents. Hence they are led to oppose the 
existing order of things in religion, society, and thought, 
and thus it is that dissenters have always been in the 
vanguard of English development. . In Hazlitt's case, this 
position as a dissenter caused him to take an attitude of 
criticism toward Tory pohtics, Tory journalism, and Tory 
literature, and, during the larger portion of his life, toward 
most of his fellow-workers in literature. 

Moreover, Hazhtt was a man of a bad temper and cantan- 
kerous disposition. He quarrelled with both his wives, and 
with almost all his friends. He seemed to lack a saving 
realization of the necessity of certain social amenities which 
forbid the too-explosive expression of our opinions about the 
living; and as a result he had difficulties in getting on with 
other people in the rough round of daily life. He was some- 
what distrustful of others; and this characteristic, with his 
retiring disposition, caused him to be regarded as a person 
rather impossible either as a friend or as an acquaintance. 
"Even in the common affairs of life, " he once wrote in a mood 
not infrequently expressed in his essays, " in love, friendship 
and marriage, how little security we have when we trust our 
happiness into the hands of others! Most of the friends I 
have seen have turned out to be bitterest enemies, or cold, 
uncomfortable acquaintances. Old companions > are like 
meats served up too often that lose their relish and their 
wholesomeness. " ^ 

1 On Living to One's-Self. 

vii 



Vm HAZLITT 

While this churlishness is an outstanding feature of Haz- 
litt's temper, too much has been made of it, largely because 
he has so freely confessed it; for after all it is on the surface, 
and is likely to conceal from us the love for simple honesty 
and downright truth which filled the central depths. Charles 
Lamb, who knew him better than any other soul, testified 
to Hazlitt in these noble terms, at a time when he could 
receive neither glory nor honor thereby: 

"I should belie my own conscience, if I said less than that I think 
William Hazlitt to be, in his natural and healthy state, one of the 
wisest and finest spirits breathing. So far from being ashamed 
of that intimacy which was betwixt us, it is my boast that I was 
able for so many years to have preserved it entire, and I think I 
shall go to my grave without finding, or expecting to find, such an- 
other companion." 

This deep-seated, congenital attitude of protest was em- 
phasized and ennobled by a further, and in this case an ex- 
ternal, complication. When he and his generation were in 
their formative years, the French Revolution burst upon an 
astonished world with cyclonic power, and was hailed by the 
youth of England as the dawn of a new day for the finest 
hopes and desires of humanity. Youth dated its day of birth 
from the Great Event, and all things were viewed only in 
connection with it. Coleridge gave memorable expression 
to the new hopes of the time in more than one poem, singing 
his worship of "the Spirit of divinest Liberty"; and Words- 
worth summed up once and for all the universal feeling of 
the young: 

"Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive. 
But to be young was very Heaven." 

Hazlitt was as deeply committed to the Revolution as 
any of his contemporaries and, unlike them, he remained 
faithful to it to his last day of life. In the following mem- 
orable passage he states what all Youth once believed, and 
what he never abandoned : 

" For my part, I set out in life with the French Revolution, and 
that event had considerable influence on my early feelings, as on those 
of others. Youth was then doubly such. It was the dawn of a new 



INTRODUCTION IX 

era, a new impulse had been given to men's minds, and the sun of 
Liberty rose upon the sun of Life in the same day, and both were 
proud to run their race together. Little did I dream, while my 
first hopes and wishes went hand in hand with those of the human 
race, that long before my eyes should close, that dawn should be 
overcast, and set once more in the night of despotism — ' total eclipse! ' 
Happy that I did not. I felt for years, and during the best part of 
my existence, heart-whole in that cause, and triumphed in the tri- 
umphs over the enemies of man! At that time, while the fairest 
aspirations of the human mind seemed about to be realized, ere the 
image of man was defaced and his breast mangled in scorn, philosophy 
took a higher, poetry could afford a deeper range." * 

Holding this faith as he did, it seemed to HazHtt impossible 
that anyone could have held it and become an apostate, 
except from the basest motives. Hence his quarrel with 
Wordsworth, Southey, Coleridge, Burke, and almost all the 
other representative men of his time. In a day when Na- 
poleon was hated and feared, Hazlitt remained faithful in 
his admiration, for he maintained that Napoleon, being 
opposed to kings, stood for democracy, and that kings are 
the enemies of men : 

"I knew all along there was but one alternative — the cause of 
kings or of mankind. This I foresaw, this I feared; the world would 
see it now, when it is too late. . . . There is but one question in the 
heart of monarchs — whether mankind are their property or not." 2 

He passionately desired to make the world safe for 'democ- 
racy, and he believed Napoleon to be a main agency in that 
laudable work; but in this belief and in his sarcastic attacks 
on kings he stood alone on the farther side of a great gulf 
which divided him from those who might have been his 
companions. 

Notwithstanding his differences with the representative 
men of his time, it remains superlatively true that Hazhtt 
gives us as complete a representation of the hopes and ideas 
which animated those who furthered or fought the cause of 
the Revolution, as any other prose writer. One ^ might go 
further and say that it is in his essays, rather than in the 
prose of Wordsworth, Coleridge, Southey, and the rest of 

1 The Feeling of Immortality in Youth. 

2 Whether Genius is Conscious of its Powers. 



X HAZLITT 

the great poets, that we find the best commentary on the 
intellectual and emotional upheaval of that momentous 
period. My First Acquaintance with Poets is the most in- 
timate view which we have into the psychology of Words- 
worth and Coleridge in the very process of composing the 
epoch-making Lyrical Ballads; and the essay on The Feeling 
of Immortality in Youth and that on Mr. Wordsworth give "the 
doctrine which underlies Wordsworth's poetry with a sim- 
plicity and accuracy which can come only from the insight 
of genius and the familiar knowledge of a friend. 

But Hazlitt is no mere echo of any person or set of per- 
sons, however representative. In the final analysis, he is 
his own voice, speaking authentic words which reveal the 
truths which he has discovered for himself and which he 
expresses in his own individual manner. He was always free 
to say that before he knew Burke he did not know the true 
eloquence of a man pouring out his own mind on paper,i and 
that before he knew Coleridge he was ''dumb, inarticulate, 
helpless, like a worm by the way-side, crushed, bleeding, 
lifeless, " and that the reason why his understanding did not 
"remain dumb and brutish," or at length found a language to 
express itself, "he owed to Coleridge, "^ who was the only 
person from whom he ever learned anything.^ 

But when his mind was awakened, it was to self-expression; 
and in these essays we have the words of a resilient, original 
mind which has been brought into fruitful contact with the 
realities of life in many of its aspects : with death, disagreeable 
people, the ignorance of the learned, the skill of jugglers 
and athletes, or the joy of going a journey. 

Adopting the reminiscent, retrospective, and autobio- 
graphical method developed to its perfection by Wordsworth, 
Hazhtt poured forth his thoughts on life; and, guided in his 
structure by his emotional attitude, he moulded the loose 
essay into a rounded form with established bounds. In this 
new form which he developed he makes a distinct place for 

* On Reading Old Books. 

2 My First Acquaintance with Poets. 

^ Lectures on the English Poets, Last Lecture^ 



INTRODUCTION XI 

himself as one of the greatest and most distinctive essayists 
in the great hne of Temple, Selden, Steele, Addison, John- 
son, and Goldsmith; and it might be said, without reflection 
on anyone, that he has had no successor. 

II. Style 

The most marked feature of Hazlitt's style is the lack of 
any eccentricity in his choice of words or in his sentence 
structure, and its prevailing qualities of straightforward sim- 
plicity and ever-present rhythm. In this respect Hazlitt's 
style may be regarded as characteristically English style 
of the more familiar and colloquial sort. This statement of 
the matter does not imply that this is a mean, or despicable, 
or easily-acquired style. Quite the opposite is meant, and 
on this point we had best consult Hazlitt himself, who has 
given a rather full exposition of his own ideals in English 
prose, which he endeavored to realize in his own practice. 
Speaking of the familiar style, he says : 

"It is not easy to write a familiar style. Many people mistake 
a familiar for a vulgar style, and suppose that to write without af- 
fectation is to write at random. On the contrary, there is nothing 
that requires more precision, and, if I may so say, purity of expression, 
than the style I am speaking of. It utterly rejects not only all un- 
meaning pomp, but all low, cant phrases, and loose, unconnected, 
slip-shod allusions. It is not to take the first word that offers, but 
the best word in common use; it is not to throw words together in 
any combinations we please, but to follow and avail ourselves of the 
true idiom of the language. To write a genuine familiar or truly 
English style is to write as anyone would speak in common conver- 
sation, who had a thorough command and choice of words, or who 
could discourse with ease, force, and perspicuity, setting aside all 
pedantic and oratorical flourishes." ^ 

With regard to vocabulary, he makes the following claim 
for himself: 

"I conceive that words are like money, not the worse for being 
common, but that it is the stamp of custom alone that gives them 
circulation or value. I am fastidious in this respect, ancl would al- 
most as soon coin the currency of the realm as counterfeit the King's 
English. I never invented or gave a new and unauthorized meaning 
to any word but a single one. "* 

^ On Familiar Style. 2 Qji Familiar Style. 



XU HAZLITT 

Even a brief examination of Hazlitt's vocabulary will 
bear out all these claims, and anyone who has even only a 
moderate knowledge of English prose knows that few authors 
show a finer choice of the fitting word on the colloquial level 
of dignified everyday intercourse. 

Hazlitt's sentences, as has been said, follow the genius of 
the English idiom, that is, they are loose, not periodic or 
suspended. They conform to the general scheme of (1) the 
subject, (2) the verb, (3) the object, or complements; not 
only in the simpler, briefer sentences, but in the longer, more 
elaborated forms. 

A few examples will suffice. First, the simple forms: 

I can write fast enough now. 10, 29. 

I remember but one other topic of discourse in this walk. H, 1-2. 

I cannot see the wit of walking and talking at the same time. 87, 6. 

To these simple forms as a basis Hazlitt frequently gives 
a suspended or periodic effect by the very simple, colloquial 
means of beginning the sentence with the representative 
''it," "there," or similar word. This method of sentence 
structure combines colloquial familiarity with the dignity 
of the periodic sentence. 

Examples: 

It was by this irresistible quality, and not by the force of his 
genius, that he vanquished. 130, 8-9. 

There is hardly anything that shows the short-sightedness or 
capriciousness of the imagination more than travelling does. 94, 8-9. 

Compound forms of the loose structure are illustrated by 
the following examples : 

In the mean time I went to Llangollen Vale, by way of initiating 
myself in the mysteries of natural scenery; and I must say I was 
enchanted with it. 12, 10-12. 

We can never be satisfied with gazing; and nature will still want 
us to look and applaud. 166, 3-5. 

He was the son of Neptune; and having lost an eye in some affray 
between the gods and men, was told that if he would go to meet the 
rising sun, he would recover his sight. 228, 3-5. 

Elaborate examples of the multiplication of this simple 
structure to produce a magnificent harmony are to be 



INTRODUCTION Xlll 

found in the passage describing Coleridge's influence on him 
(224, 28-225, 28), and in the passage quoted in the introductory- 
note to the essay on Coleridge, which gives an account of 
Coleridge's spiritual development. 

Occasionally Hazlitt inverts the loose construction and 
obtains a modified periodic effect, as in the great sentence 
in The Feeling of Immortalitij in Youth (166, 17-169, 8), but 
this construction is a departure from his usual practice and 
is used only as an occasional grace. 

These examples of the longer sentences illustrate very 
clearly Hazlitt's love of balance and parallel construction; 
but the shorter sentences also show that this is a constant 
feature of his style. He has numerous sentences, short, 
medium, and long, which are based on the parallel between 
likenesses or contrasts. 

Examples : 

I can enjoy society in a room; but out of doors nature is company 
enough for me. 87, 2-3. 

I am then never less alone than when alone. 87, 4. 

Give me the clear blue sky over my head, and the green turf be- 
neath my feet, a winding road before me, and a three hours' march 
to dinner — and then to thinking! 87, 29-32. 

I laugh, I run, I leap, I sing for joy. 88, 1. 

Burke has enunciated a canon of style that the master 
sentence of every paragraph should involve, firstly, a thought, 
secondly, an image, and, thirdly, a sentiment. This may be 
fully applied to most of HazHtt's sentences, for the thoughts 
which he expounded are given flight and buoyancy by an 
atmosphere of feeling, and continuity of progress by the 
energy of images. This is the result of a full mind, which 
brings to the subject a never-failing supply of supporting 
images. Hazlitt's argument never becomes abstract, but 
is always conducted in the concrete. Examples of this need 
not be cited, for it would be impossible to open this volume 
at any page which would not yield an abundance of instances 
to establish this fact of his practice. It seemed to be an 
impossibility with him to write in an empty manner; words, 
illustrations, quotations, remembrances, images crowd in 
upon him and vivify his pages. As Dryden says of Chaucer, 



XIV HAZLITT 

here is God^s plenty, and the reader can glean in whichever 
field he may desire, with the sober certainty of gathering a 
generous sheaf. 

To the fullness and riches of Hazlitt's mind we must add 
the musical quality of his ear. Most of us write as deaf 
men talk, — without life or rhythm. Hazlitt, on the con- 
trary, writes a prose which seems to arise in speech; and he 
seems to hear what he puts down on paper and to test it by 
the standard of speech rhythm. It would be difficult indeed to 
find in Hazlitt a sentence which is not instinct with the life 
of the rhythm and cadence which is native to the English 
tongue; and it is this constant quality which led Robert 
Louis Stevenson to utter that famous ejaculation: "We are 
mighty fine fellows, but we cannot write like William Hazlitt. " 

No one knew the sources of his style better than Hazlitt 
himself, and nowhere has he indicated them more definitely 
than in a passage in his Letter to William Gifford, Esq. This 
passage we shall allow to stand as the final statement con- 
cerning HazUtt's prose style: 

"As to my style, I thought little about it. I only used the word 
which seemed to me to signify the idea I wanted to convey, and 
I did not rest till I had got it. In seeking for truth I sometimes 
found beauty." 



OUTLINE OF HAZLITT'S LIFE 

1778. April 10. William Hazlitt was born at Maidstone, Kent. 
His father, John Hazlitt, was from Shronell, County Antrim, 
Ireland; his mother, Grace Loftus, was from Wisbeach, 
Cambridgeshire. 

1780-1783. The Hazlitts were at Bandon, in the County of Cork, 
Ireland. 

1783-1787. The Hazlitts were in America, residing in New York, 
Philadelphia, and Boston. William Hazlitt always remem- 
bered with pleasure some of his American experiences. 

1787. The Hazlitts returned to England and took up their residence 
at Wem, an obscure and solitary village in Shropshire. 

1791. Wrote a letter to the Shrewsbury Chronicle in defence of 
Dr. Priestley. 

1793. Hazlitt entered the Unitarian College at Hackney, a borough 
of London. 

1796. liazhtt read Burke's "Letter to a Noble Lord," in the St. 
James Chronicle. 

1798. Hazlitt met Coleridge and Wordsworth. This was the great 
event of Hazlitt' s literary and intellectual life. 

1802. Hazlitt went to Paris to study art in the Louvre. 

1803. Hazlitt began a career as a portrait-painter, 

1805. Essay on the Principles of Human Action: Being an Ar- 
gument in favour of the National Disinterestedness of the 
Human Mind. 

1806. Free Thoughts on Public Affairs, or Advice to a Patriot. 

1807. An Abridgement of the Light of Nature Pursued, by Abraham 
Tucker. 

Reply to the Essay on Population by Malthus. 

1808. The Eloquence of the British Senate. 2 volumes. 

Hazlitt married Sarah Stoddart, May 1, and settled at 
Winterslow, a village in Wiltshire. 

1810. A New and Improved Grammar of the English Tongue. 

1811. September 26. A son born, and christened William. This 
son became his father's literary executor. 

1812. Removed to London, and became Parliamentary reporter 
for the Morning Chronicle. Lectured on "The 'Rise and 
Progress of Modern Philosophy." 

1814. Became dramatic critic for the Morning Chronicle. Con- 
tributed to the Edinburgh Review and The Examiner. 
1816. Memoirs of the Late Thomas Holcroft, Written by Himself. 

XV 



XVI HAZLITT 

1817. The Round Table: a Collection -of Essays on Literature, Men 
and Manners. 2 volumes. 

1818. Lectures on the English Poets. Delivered at the Surrey In- 
stitution. A View of the English Stage, or A Series of Dramatic 
Criticisms. 

1819. Lectures on the English Comic Writers. Delivered at the 
Surrey Institution. A Letter to William Gifford, Esq. Po- 
litical Essays, with Sketches of Public Characters. 

1820. Lectures on the Dramatic Literature of the Age of Elizabeth. 
Delivered at the Surrey Institution. 

1821. Table-Talk, or Original Essays. Vol. I. 

1822. Table-Talk, or Original Essays. Vol. II. 

Hazlitt was divorced from his wife at Edinburgh, in accordance 
with Scots law. 

1823. Liber Amoris, or the New Pygmalion. This book is a record 
of his infatuation with Miss Sarah Walker. 
Characteristics in the Manner of Rochefoucaulf s Maxims. 

1824. Sketches of the Principal Art Galleries in England. 
Contributed article on Fine Arts to the Encyclopcedia Britan- 
nica. 

Married Mrs. Bridgwater. She separated from him the fol- 
lowing year. 

1825. The Spirit of the Age, or Contemporary Portraits. 

Select Poets of Great Britain, a revision of the Select British 
Poets published and suppressed in 1824. 

1826. The Plain Speaker: Opinions on Books, Men, and Things. 
Notes of a Journey through France and Italy. 

1826-1827. Boswell Redivivus, published in the New Monthly Maga- 
zine. This is the first form of Conversations of James North- 
cote, Esq., R. A. 

1828. The Life of Napoleon Buonaparte, Vols. I and II. 

1830. The Life of Napoleon Buonaparte, Vols. Ill and IV. 
The Conversations of James Northcote, Esq. R. A. 

1830. September 18. Hazlitt died in London, aged 52 years. 

1836. Literary Remains of William Hazlitt; with a Notice of his 
Life, by his son, and Thoughts on his Genius and Writings, 
by E. L. Bulwer and Mr. Serjeant Talfourd. 2 volumes. 

1839. Sketches and Essays, by William Hazlitt. Now first collected 
by his son. 

1850. Winterslow; Essays and Characters written there. By 
William Hazlitt. Collected by hie son. 



SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY 

I. Editions and Selections 

1. The Collected Works of William, Hazlitt, Edited by A. R. Waller 

and Arnold Glover, London, 1902-1906. Twelve volumes, 
with introductions, bibliographical descriptions, and notes. 
The first volume contains an Introduction by William Ernest 
Henley. A thirteenth volume contains a full index to the 
Collected Works. 

2. Essays of William Hazlitt, with Introduction by Frank Carr, 

London, 1889. 

3. Essays on Poetry, Edited with Introduction and Notes by D. 

Nichol Smith, London, 1906. 

4. Selections from William Hazlitt, Edited with Introduction and 

Notes by Will David Howe, Boston, 1913. 

II. Biography 

1. Literary Remains of the Late William Hazlitt, with a Notice of his 

Life by his Son, and Thoughts on his Genius and Writings by 
E. L. Bulwer, Esq., M.P., and Mr. Serjeant Talfourd. 2 vols. 
1836. 

2. Memoirs of William Hazlitt. William Carew Hazlitt. 2 vols. 

1867. 

3. Four Generations of a Literary Family, the Hazlitts in England, 

Ireland, and America, their Friends and their Fortunes. 1725- 
1896. William Carew Hazlitt. 2 vols. 1897. 

4. Lamb and Hazlitt, Letters and Records. William Carew Hazlitt. 

1899. 

5. William Hazlitt. Augustine Birrell, English Men of Letters 

Series. 1902. 

6. Vie de William Hazlitt, L'Essayiste. Jules Douady. Paris, 

1907. 

7. Liste chronologique des CEuvres de William Hazlitt. Jules Douady. 

Paris, 1906. 

III. Criticism 

t 

1. Do Quincey, Thomas. Works, V and VI (edited by Masson). 

2. Elton, Oliver. A Survey of English Literature {1780-lSSO). 1912. 

3. Encyclopcedia Britannica, Vol. XIII. 

4. Herford, C. H. The Age of Wordsworth. 1899. 



XVIU SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY 

5. Hunt, Leigh. Autobiography. 3 vols. 1850. 

6. Hunt, Leigh. Dramatic Essays (edited by Archer and Lowe). 

7. Saintsbury, George E. Essays on English Literature (1780-1860). 

1891. 

8. Saintsbury, George E. History of Criticism. 3 vols. 1900- 

1904. 

9. Stephen, Leslie. Hours in a Library. Vol. II. 1874-1879. 

10. Stephen, Leslie. William Hazlitt in Dictionary of National Biog- 

raphy. 

11. Winchester, C. T. A Group of English Essayists. New York, 

1910. 



ESSAYS OF HAZLITT 

MY FIRST ACQUAINTANCE WITH POETS 

My father was a Dissenting Minister at W m in Shrop- 
shire; and in the year 1798 (the figures that compose that 
date are to me like the "dreaded name of Demogorgon") 
Mr. Coleridge came to Shrewsbury, to succeed Mr. Rowe in 
the spiritual charge of a Unitarian congregation there. He 5 
did not come till late on the Saturday afternoon before he 
was to preach; and Mr. Rowe, who himself went down to 
the coach in a state of anxiety and expectation, to look for the 
arrival of his successor, could find no one at all answering the 
description but a round-faced man in a short black coat (like 10 
a shooting-jacket) which hardly seemed to have been made 
for him, but who seemed to be talking at a great rate to his 
fellow-passengers. Mr. Rowe had scarce returned to give 
an account of his disappointment, when the round-faced man 
in black entered, and dissipated all doubts on the subject, 15 
by beginning to talk. He did not cease while he staid; nor 
has he since, that I know of. He held the good town of 
Shrewsbury in delightful suspense for three weeks that he 
remained there, "fluttering the proud Salopians like an eagle 
in a dove-cote;" and the Welsh mountains that skirt the 20 
horizon with their tempestuous confusion, agree to have 
heard no such mystic sounds since the days of 

"High-born Hoel's harp or soft Llewellyn's lay!" 

As we passed along between W m and Shrewsbury, and 

I eyed their blue tops seen through the wintry branches, or 25 
the red rustling leaves of the sturdy oak-trees by the road- 
side, a sound was in my ears as of a Siren's song; I was stunned, 
startled with it, as from deep sleep; but I had no notion then 
that I should ever be able to express my admiration to others 
in motley imagery or quaint allusion, till the light of his genius 30 

1 



Z AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCE 

shone into my soul, like the sun's rays glittering in the puddles 
of the road. I was at that time dumb, inarticulate, helpless, 
like a worm by the way-side, crushed, bleeding, lifeless; but 
now, bursting from the deadly bands that bound them, 

5 "With Styx nine times round them," 

my ideas float on winged words, and as they expand their 
plumes, catch the golden light of other years. My soul has 
indeed remained in its original bondage, dark, obscure, with 
longings infinite and unsatisfied; my heart, shut up in the 

10 prison-house of this rude clay, has never found, nor will it 
ever find, a heart to speak to; but that my understanding also 
did not remain dumb and brutish, or at length found a lan- 
guage to express itself, I owe to Coleridge. But this is not 
to my purpose. 

15 My father lived ten miles from Shrewsbury, and was in the 
habit of exchanging visits with Mr. Rowe, and with Mr. 
Jenkins of Whitchurch (nine miles farther on) according to 
the custom of Dissenting Ministers in each other's neighbour- 
hood. A line of communication is thus established, by which 

20 the flame of civil and religious liberty is kept alive, and 
nourishes its smouldering fire unquenchable, like the fires 
in the Agamemnon of ^schylus, placed at different stations, 
that waited for ten long years to announce with their blazing 
pyramids the destruction of Troy. Coleridge had agreed 

25 to come over and see my father, according to the courtesy 
of the country, as Mr. Rowe's probable successor; but in 
the mean time I had gone to hear him preach the Sunday 
after his arrival. A poet and a philosopher getting up into 
a Unitarian pulpit to preach the Gospel, was a romance in 

30 these degenerate days, a sort of revival of the primitive spirit 
of Christianity, which was not to be resisted. 

It was in January, 1798, that I rose one morning before 
daylight, to walk ten miles in the mud, and went to hear this 
celebrated person preach. Never, the longest day I have to 

35 live, shall I have such another walk as this cold, raw, comfort- 
less one, in the winter of the year 1798. II y a des impressions 
que ni le tems ni les circonstances peuvent effacer. Dusse-je 



MY FIRST ACQUAINTANCE WITH POETS 6 

vivre des siecles entiers, le doux terns de ma jeunesse ne pent 
renaitre pour moi, ni s^effacer jamais dans ma memoire. When 
I got there, the organ was playing the 100th psahn, and, 
when it was done, Mr. Coleridge rose and gave out his text, 
'^ And he went up into the mountain to pray, himself, alone." 5 
As he gave out this text, his voice ''rose like a steam of rich 
distilled perfumes, " and when he came to the two last words, 
which he pronounced loud, deep, and distinct, it seemed to 
me, who was then young, as if the sounds had echoed from 
the bottom of the human heart, and as if that prayer might 10 
have floated in solemn silence through the universe. The 
idea of St. John came into mind, ''of one crying in the wilder- 
ness, who had his loins girt about, and whose food was 
locusts and wild honey." The preacher then launched into 
his subject, like an eagle dallying with the wind. The ser- 15 
mon was upon peace and war; upon church and state — not 
their alliance, but their separation — on the spirit of the 
world and the spirit of Christianity, not as the same, but as 
opposed to one another. He talked of those who had "in- 
scribed the cross of Christ on banners dripping with human 20 
gore." He made a poetical and pastoral excursion, — and 
to shew the fatal effects of war, drew a striking contrast 
between the simple shepherd boy, driving his team afield, 
or sitting under the hawthorn, piping to his flock, "as though 
he should never be old," and the same poor country-lad, 25 
crimped, kidnapped, brought into town, made drunk at an 
alehouse, turned into a wretched drummerboy, with his hair 
sticking on end with powder and pomatum, a long cue at his 
back; and tricked out in the loathsome finery of the profession 
of blood. 30 

"Such were the notes our once-lov'd poet sung." 

And for myself, I could not have been more delighted if I had 
heard the music of the spheres. Poetry and Philosophy had 
met together, Truth and Genius had embraced, under the eye 
and with the sanction of Religion. This was even beyond my 35 
hopes. I returned home well satisfied. The sun that was 
still labouring pale and wan through the sky, obscured by 



4 AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCE 

thick mists, seemed an emblem of the good cause; and the 
cold dank drops of dew that hung half melted on the beard 
of the thistle, had something genial and refreshing in them; 
for there was a spirit of hope and youth in all nature, that 
5 turned everything into good. The face of nature had not 
then the brand of jus divinum on it : 

"Like to that sanguine flower inscrib'd with woe." 

On the Tuesday following, the half -inspired speaker came. 
I was called down into the room where he was, and went haK- 

10 hoping, half-afraid. He received me very graciously, and I 
listened for a long time without uttering a word. I did not 
suffer in his opinion by my silence. ''For those two hours, " 
he afterwards was pleased to say, ''he was conversing with 
W. H.'s forehead!" His appearance was different from what 

15 1 had anticipated from seeing him before. At a distance, 
and in the dim light of the chapel, there was to me a strange 
wildness in his aspect, a dusky obscurity, and I thought him 
pitted with the small-pox. His complexion was at that 
time clear, and even bright — 

20 "As are the children of yon azure sheen." 

His forehead was broad and high, light as if built of ivory, 
with large projecting eyebrows, and his eyes rolling beneath 
them like a sea with darkened lustre. 'A certain tender 
bloom his face o'erspread, " a purple tinge as we see it in the 

25 pale thoughtful complexions of the Spanish portrait-painters, 
Murillo and Velasquez. His mouth was gross, voluptuous, 
open, eloquent; his chin good-humoured and round; but his 
nose, the rudder of the face, the index of the will, was small, 
feeble, nothing — like what he has done. It might seem that 

30 the genius of his face as from a height surveyed and pro- 
jected him (with sufficient capacity and huge aspiration) into 
the world unknown of thought and imagination, with nothing 
to support or guide his veering purpose, as if Columbus had 
launched his adventurous course for the New World in a 

35 scallop, without oars or compass. So at least I comment on 
it after the event. Coleridge in his person was rather above 
the common size, inclining to the corpulent, or like Lord 



MY FIRST ACQUAINTANCE WITH POETS 5 

Hamlet, "somewhat fat and pursy." His hair (now, alas! 
grey) was then black and glossy as the raven's, and fell in 
smooth masses over his forehead. This long, pendulous hair 
is peculiar to enthusiasts, to those whose minds tend heaven- 
ward; and is traditionally inseparable (though of a different 5 
colour) from the pictures of Christ. It ought to belong, as 
a character, to all who preach Christ crucified, and Coleridge 
was at that time one of those! 

It was curious to observe the contrast between him and my 
father, who was a veteran in the cause, and then declining 10 
into the vale of years. He had been a poor Irish lad, care- 
fully brought up by his parents, and sent to the University 
of Glasgow (where he studied under Adam Smith) to prepare 
him for his future destination. It was his mother's proudest 
wish to see her son a Dissenting Minister. So if we look back 15 
to past generations (as far as eye can reach) we see the same 
hopes, fears, wishes, followed by the same disappointments, 
throbbing in the human heart; and so we may see them (if 
we look forward) rising up for ever, and disappearing, like 
vapourish bubbles, in the human breast! After being tossed 20 
about from congregation to congregation in the heats of the 
Unitarian controversy, and squabbles about the American 
war, he had been relegated to an obscure village, where he 
was to spend the last thirty years of his life, far from the only 
converse that he loved, the talk about disputed texts of 25 
Scripture and the cause of civil and rehgious hberty. Here 
he passed his days, repining but resigned, in the study of 
the Bible, and the perusal of the Commentators, — huge 
folios, not easily got through, one of which would outlast a 
winter! Why did he pore on these from morn to night (with 30 
the exception of a walk in the fields or a turn in the garden to 
gather broccoli-plants or kidney-beans of liis own rearing, with 
no small degree of pride and pleasure)? Here were "no 
figures nor no fantasies, " — neither poetry nor philosophy — 
nothing to dazzle, nothing to excite modern curiosity; but 35 
to his lack-lustre eyes there appeared, within the pages of 
the ponderous, unwieldy, neglected tomes, the sacred name 
of JEHOVAH in Hebrew Capitals: pressed down by the 



6 AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCE 

weight of the style, worn to the last fading thinness of the 
understanding, there were glimpses, glimmering notions of 
the patriarchal wanderings, with palm-trees hovering in the 
horizon, and processions of camels at the distance of three 
5 thousand years; there was Moses with the Burning Bush, 
the number of the Twelve Tribes, types, shadows, glosses 
on the law and the prophets; there were discussions (dull 
enough) on the age of Methuselah, a mighty speculation! 
there were outlines, rude guesses at the shape of Noah's Ark 

10 and of the riches of Solomon's Temple ; questions as to the 
date of the creation, predictions of the end of all things; the 
great lapses of time, the strange mutations of the globe were 
unfolded with the voluminous leaf, as it turned over; and 
though the soul might slumber with an hieroglyphic veil of 

15 inscrutable mysteries drawn over it, yet it was in a slumber 
ill-exchanged for all the sharpened realities of sense, wit, 
fancy, or reason. My father's life was comparatively a 
dream; but it was a dream of infinity and eternity, of death, 
the resurrection, and a judgment to come! 

20 No two individuals were ever more unlike than were the 
host and his guest. A poet was to my father a sort of non- 
descript: yet whatever added grace to the Unitarian cause 
was to him welcome. He could hardly have been more sur- 
prised or pleased, if our visitor had worn wings. Indeed, his 

25 thoughts had wings; and as the silken sounds rustled round 
our little wainscoted parlour, my father threw back his 
spectacles over his forehead, his white hairs mixing with its 
sanguine hue; and a smile of delight beamed across his rugged 
cordial face, to think that Truth had found a new ally in 

30 Fancy! 1 Besides, Coleridge seemed to take considerable 
notice of me, and that of itself was enough. He talked very 
famiUarly, but agreeably, and glanced over a variety of sub- 
jects. At dinner-time he grew more animated, and dilated 

1 My father was one of those who mistook his talent after all. He 

35 used to be very much dissatisfied that I preferred his Letters to his 

Sermons. The last were forced and dry; the first came naturally 

from him. For ease, half-plays on words, and a supine, monkish, 

indolent pleasantry, I have never seen them equalled. 



MY FIRST ACQUAINTANCE WITH POETS 7 

in a very edifying manner on Mary Wolstonecraft and 
Mackintosh. The last, he said, he considered (on my father's 
speaking of his Vindicice Gallicce as a capital performance) 
as a clever, scholastic man — a master of the topics, — or 
as the ready warehouseman of letters, who knew exactly where 5 
to lay his hand on what he wanted, though the goods were not 
his own. He thought him no match for Burke, either in style 
or matter. Burke was a metaphysician, Mackmtosh a mere 
logician. Burke was an orator (almost a poet) who reasoned 
in figures, because he had an eye for nature : Mackintosh, on 10 
the other hand, was a rhetorician, who had only an eye to 
commonplaces. On this I ventured to say that I had al- 
ways entertained a great opinion of Burke, and that (as far 
as I could find) the speaking of him with contempt might be 
made the test of a vulgar, democratical mind. This was the 15 
first observation I ever made to Coleridge, and he said it was 
a very just and striking one. I remember the leg of Welsh 
mutton and the turnips on the table that day had the finest 
flavour imaginable. Coleridge added that Mackintosh and 
Tom Wedgwood (of whom, however, he spoke highly) had 20 
expressed a very indifferent opinion of his friend Mr. Words- 
worth, on which he remarked to them — "He strides on so 
far before you, that he dwindles in the distance!" Godwin 
had once boasted to him of having carried on an argument 
with Mackintosh for three hours with dubious success; 25 
Coleridge told him — ''If there had been a man of genius in 
the room, he would have settled the question in five minutes. " 
He asked me if I had ever seen Mary Wolstonecraft, and I 
said,- 1 had once for a few moments, and that she seemed to 
me to turn off Godwin's objections to something she advanced 30 
with quite a playful, easy air. He replied, that "this was only 
one instance of the ascendancy which people of imagination 
exercised over those of mere intellect." He did not rate 
Godwin very high ^ (this was caprice or prejudice, real or 

^ He complained in particular of the presumption of his attempting 35 
to establish the future immortality of man, "without" (as he said) 
"knowing what Death was or what Life was" — and the tone in 
which he pronounced these two words seemed to convey a complete 
image of both. 



8 AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCE 

affected) but he had a great idea of Mrs. Wolstonecraft's 
powers of conversation, none at all of her talent for book- 
making. We talked a little about Holcroft. He had been 
asked if he was not much struck with him, and he said, he 

5 thought himself in more danger of being struck hij him. I 
complained that he would not let me get on at all, for he re- 
quired a definition of every the commonest word, exclaiming, 
"What do you mean by a sensation, Sir? What do you mean 
by an ideaf'^ This, Coleridge said, was barricadoing the 

10 road to truth: — it was setting up a turnpike-gate at every 
step we took. I forget a great number of things, many more 
than I remember; but the day passed off pleasantly, and the 
next morning Mr. Coleridge was to return to Shrewsbury. 
When I came down to breakfast, I found that he had just 

15 received a letter from his friend, T. Wedgwood, making him 
an offer of £150 a-year if he chose to wave his present pur- 
suit, and devote himseff entirely to the study of poetry and 
philosophy. Coleridge seemed to make up his mind to close 
with this proposal in the act of tying on one of his shoes. 

20 It threw an additional damp on his departure. It took the 
wayward enthusiast quite from us to cast him into Deva's 
winding vales, or by the shores of old romance. Instead of 
living at ten miles distance, of being the pastor of a Dis- 
senting congregation at Shrewsbury, he was henceforth to 

25 inhabit the Hill of Parnassus, to be a Shepherd on the Delec- 
table Mountains. Alas! I knew not the way thither, and 
felt very little gratitude for Mr. Wedgwood's bounty. I was 
pleasantly relieved from this dilemma; for Mr. Coleridge, 
asking for a pen and ink, and going to a table to write some- 

30 thing on a bit of card, advanced towards me with undulating 
step, and giving me the precious document, said that that 
was his address, Mr. Coleridge, Nether Stowey, Somersetshire; 
and that he should be glad to see me there in a few weeks' 
time, and, if I chose, would come half-way to meet me. I 

35 was not less surprised than the shepherd-boy (this simile is 
to be found in Cassandra) when he sees a thunder-bolt fall 
close at his feet. I stammered out my acknowledgments and 
acceptance of this offer (I thought Mr. Wedgwood's annuity 



MY FIRST ACQUAINTANCE WITH POETS 9 

a trifle to it) as well as I could; and this mighty business being 
settled, the poet-preacher took leave, and I accompanied him 
six miles on the road. It was a fine morning in the middle 
of winter, and he talked the whole way. The scholar in 
Chaucer is described as going 5 

"sounding on his way." 

So Coleridge went on his. In digressing, in dilating, in pass- 
ing from subject to subject, he appeared to me to float in air, 
to slide on ice. He told me in confidence (going along) that he 
should have preached two sermons before he accepted the 10 
situation at Shrewsbury, one on Infant Baptism, the other on 
the Lord's Supper, shewing that he could not administer 
either, which would have effectually disqualified him for the 
object in view. I observed that he continually crossed me on 
the way by shifting from one side of the foot-path to the other. 15 
This struck me as an odd movement; but I did not at that 
time connect it with any instability of purpose or involuntary 
change of principle, as I have done since. He seemed unable 
to keep on in a straight line. He spoke slightingly of Hume 
(whose Essays on Miracles he said was stolen from an objec-20 
tion started in one of South's Sermons — Credat Judceus 
Appella!) I was not very much pleased at this account of 
Hume, for I had just been reading, with infinite relish, that 
completest of all metaphysical choke-pears, his Treatise on 
Human Nature, to which the Essays, in point of scholastic 25 
subtlety and close reasoning, are mere elegant trifling, light 
summer-reading. Coleridge even denied the excellence of 
Hume's general style, which I think betrayed a want of taste 
or candour. He however made me amends by the manner 
in which he spoke of Berkeley. He dwelt particularly on his 30 
Essay on Vision as a masterpiece of analytical reasoning. 
So it undoubtedly is. He was exceedingly angry with Dr. 
Johnson for striking the stone with his foot, in allusion to 
this author's Theory of Matter and Spirit, and saying, "Thus 
I confute him, Sir. " Coleridge drew a parallel (I don't know 35 
how he brought about the connection) between Bishop 
Berkeley and Tom Paine. He said the one was an instance 



10 AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCE 

of a subtle, the other of an acute mind, than which no two 
things could be more distinct. The one was a shop-boy's 
quality, the other the characteristic of a philosopher. He 
considered Bishop Butler as a true philosopher, a profound 
5 and conscientious thinker, a genuine reader of nature and his 
own mind. He did not speak of his Analogy, but of his 
Sermons at the Rolls' Chapel, of which I had never heard. 
Coleridge somehow always contrived to prefer the unknown 
to the known. In this instance he was right. The Analogy 

10 is a tissue of sophistry, of wire-drawn, theological special- 
pleading; the Sermons (with the Preface to them) are in a 
fine vein of deep, matured reflection, a candid appeal to our 
observation of human nature, without pedantry and without 
bias. I told Coleridge I had written a few remarks, and was 

15 sometimes foolish enough to believe that I had made a dis- 
covery on the same subject (the Natural Disinterestedness of 
the Human Mind) — and I tried to explain my view of it to 
Coleridge, who listened with great wiUingness, but I did not 
succeed in making myself understood. I sat down to the 

20 task shortly afterwards for the twentieth time, got new pens 
and paper, determined to make clear work of it, wrote a few 
meagre sentences in the skeleton-style of a mathematical 
demonstration, stopped half way down the second page; 
and, after trying in vain to pump up any words, images, no- 

25tions, apprehensions, facts, or observations, from that gulf 
of abstraction in which I had plunged myself for four or five 
years preceding, gave up the attempt as labour in vain, and 
shed tears of helpless despondency on the blank, unfinished 
paper. I can write fast enough now. Am I better than I 

30 was then? Oh, no! One truth discovered, one pang of regret 
at not being able to express it, is better than all the fluency 
and flippancy in the world. Would that I could go back to 
what I then was! Why can we not revive past times as we 
can revisit old places? If I had the quaint Muse of Sir 

35 Philip Sidney to assist me, I would write a Sonnet to the Road 

between W m and Shrewsbury, and immortalise every step 

of it by some fond enigmatical conceit. I would swear that 
the very milestones had ears, and that Harmer-hill stooped 



MY FIRST ACQUAINTANCE WITH POETS 11 

with all its pines, to listen to a poet, as he passed ! I remember 
but one other topic of discourse in this walk. He mentioned 
Paley, praised the naturalness and clearness of his style, but 
condemned his sentiments, thought him a mere time-serving 
casuist, and said that 'Hhe fact of his work on Moral and Po- 5 
litical Philosophy being made a text-book in our universities 
was a disgrace to the national character. " We parted at the 
six-mile stone; and I returned homeward, pensive but much 
pleased. I had met with unexpected notice from a person 
whom I believed to have been prejudiced against me. "Kind 10 
and affable to me had been his condescension, and should be 
honoured ever with suitable regard. " He was the first poet 
I had known, and he certainly answered to that inspired 
name. I had heard a great deal of his powers of conversation, 
and was not disappointed. In fact, I never met with any- 15 
thing at all like them, either before or since. I could easily 
credit the accounts which were circulated of his holding forth 
to a large party of ladies and gentlemen, an evening or two 
before, on the Berkeleian Theory, when he made the whole 
material universe look like a transparency of fine words; and 20 
another story (which I believe he has somewhere told himself) 
of his being asked to a party at Birmingham, of his smoking 
tobacco and going to sleep after dinner on a sofa, where the 
company found him to their no small surprise, which was in- 
creased to wonder when he started up of a sudden, and rub- 25 
bing his eyes, looked about him, and launched into a three- 
hours' description of the third heaven, of which he had had a 
dream, very different from Mr. Southey's Vision of Judgment, 
and also from that other Vision of Judgment, which Mr. 
Murray, the Secretary of the Bridge-street Junto, has taken 30 
into his especial keeping! 

On my way back, I had a sound in my ears, it was the voice 
of Fancy: I had a light before me, it was the face of Poetry. 
The one still fingers there, the other has not quitted my side! 
Coleridge in truth met me half-way on the ground of philos- 35 
ophy, or I should not have been won over to his imaginative 
creed. I had an uneasy, pleasurable sensation all the time, 
till I was to visit him. During those months the chill breath 



12 AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCE 

of winter gave me a welcoming; the vernal air was balm and 
inspiration to me. The golden sunsets, the silver star of 
evening, lighted me on my way to new hopes and prospects. 
/ was to visit Coleridge in the Spring. This circumstance was 

5 never absent from my thoughts, and mingled with all my 
feehngs. I wrote to him at the time proposed, and received 
an answer postponing my intended visit for a week or two, 
but very cordially urging me to complete my promise then. 
This delay did not damp, but rather increased my ardour. 

10 In the mean time I went to Llangollen Vale, by way of 
initiating myself in the mysteries of natural scenery; and I 
must say I was enchanted with it. I had been reading Cole- 
ridge's description of England, in his fine Ode on the Departing 
Year, and I apphed it, con amore, to the objects before me. 

15 That valley was to me (in a manner) the cradle of a new 
existence: in the river that winds through it, my spirit was 
baptised in the waters of Helicon! 

I returned home, and soon after set out on my journey with 
unworn heart and untired feet. My way lay through Wor- 

20cester and Gloucester, and by Upton, where I thought of 
Tom Jones and the adventure of the muff. I remember 
getting completely wet through one day, and stopping at an 
inn (I think it was at Tewkesbury) where I sat up all night 
to read Paul and Virginia. Sweet were the showers in early 

25 youth that drenched my body, and sweet the drops of pity 
that fell upon the books I read! I recollect a remark of 
Coleridge's upon this very book, that nothing could shew 
the gross indelicacy of French manners and the entire cor- 
ruption of their imagination more strongly than the be- 

30 haviour of the heroine in the last fatal scene, who turns away 
from a person on board the sinking vessel, that offers to save 
her life, because he has thrown off his clothes to assist him 
in swimming. Was this a time to think of such a circum- 
stance? I once hinted to Wordsworth, as we were sailing in 

35 his boat on Grasmere Lake, that I thought he had borrowed 
the idea of his Poems on the Naming of Places from the local 
inscriptions of the same kind in Paul and Virginia. He did 
not own the obligation, and stated some distinction without 



MY FIRST ACQUAINTANCE WITH POETS 13 

a difference, in defense of his claim to originality. Any the 
shghtest variation would be sufficient for this purpose in his 
mind; for whatever he added or omitted would inevitably 
be worth all that any one else had done, and contain the 
marrow of the sentiment. It was still two days before the 5 
time fixed for my arrival, for I had taken care to set out early 
enough. I stopped these two days at Bridgewater, and when 
I was tired of sauntering on the banks of its muddy river, 
returned to the inn, and read Camilla. So have I loitered 
my hfe away, reading books, looking at pictures, going to 10 
plays, hearing, thinking, writing on what pleased me best. 
I have wanted only one tiling to make me happy; but want- 
ing that, have wanted everything! 

I arrived, and was well received. The country about 
Nether Stowey is beautiful, green and hilly, and near the sea- 15 
shore. I saw it but the other day, after an interval of twenty 
years, from a hill near Taunton. How was the map of my 
life spread out before me, as the map of the country lay at 
my feet! In the afternoon Coleridge took me over to AU- 
Foxden, a romantic old family mansion of the St. Aubins, 20 
where Wordsworth hved. It was then in the possession of 
a friend of the poet's, who gave him the free use of it. Some- 
how that period (the time just after the French Revolution) 
was not a time when nothing was given for nothing. The 
mind opened, and a softness might be perceived coming over 25 
the heart of individuals, beneath 'Hhe scales that fence" our 
self-interest. Wordsworth himself was from home, but his 
sister kept house, and set before us a frugal repast; and we 
had free access to her brother's poems, the Lyrical Ballads, 
which were still in manuscript, or in the form of Sybilline^O 
Leaves. I dipped into a few of these with great satisfaction, 
and with the faith of a novice. I slept that night in an old 
- room with blue hangings, and covered with the round-faced 
family portraits of the age of George I and II and from the 
wooded declivity of the adjoining park that overlooked my 35 
window, at the dawn of day, could 

"hear the loud stag speak." 



14 AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCE 

In the outset of life (and particularly at this time I felt it so) 
our imagination has a body to it. We are in a state between 
sleeping and waking, and have indistinct but glorious glimpses 
of strange shapes, and there is always something to come 
5 better than what we see. As in our dreams the fulness of the 
blood gives warmth and reahty to the coinage of the brain, 
so in youth our ideas are clothed, and fed, and pampered with 
our good spirits; we breathe thick with thoughtless happiness, 
the weight of future years presses on the strong pulses of the 

10 heart, and we repose with undisturbed faith in truth and good. 
As we advance, we exhaust our fund of enjoyment and of hope. 
We are no longer wrapped in lamb's wool, lulled in Elysium. 
As we taste the pleasures of life, their spirit evaporates, the 
sense palls; and nothing is left but the phantoms, the lifeless 

15 shadows of what has been! 

That morning, as soon as breakfast was over, we strolled 
out into the park, and seating ourselves on the trunk of an 
old ash-tree that stretched along the ground, Coleridge read 
aloud with a sonorous and musical voice the ballad of Betty 

20 Foy. I was not critically or sceptically inclined. I saw 
touches of truth and nature, and took the rest for granted. 
But in the Thorn, the Mad Mother, and the Complaint of the 
Poor Indian Woman, I felt that deeper power and pathos 
which have been since acknowledged, 

25 "In spite of pride, in erring reason's spite," 

as the characteristics of this author; and the sense of a new 
style and a new spirit in poetry came over me. It had to me 
something of the effect that arises from the turning up of the 
fresh soil, or of the first welcome breath of Spring: 
30 "While yet the trembling year is unconfirmed." 

Coleridge and myself walked back to Stowey that evening, 
and his voice sounded high 

"Of Providence, foreknowledge, will, and fate, 
Fix'd fate, free-will, foreknowledge absolute," 

35 as we passed through echoing grove, by fairy stream or water- 
fall, gleaming in the summer moonlight! He lamented that 



MY FIRST ACQUAINTANCE WITH POET^ 15 

Wordsworth was not prone enough to beheve in the traditional 
superstitions of the place, and that there was a something 
corporeal, a matter-of-fact-ness, a clinging to the palpable, or 
often to the petty, in his poetry, in consequence. His genius 
was not a spirit that descended to him through the air; it 5 
sprung out of the ground like a flower, or unfolded itself from 
a green spray, on which the gold-finch sang. He said, how- 
ever (if I remember right) that this objection must be con- 
fined to his descriptive pieces, that his philosophic poetry had 

grand and comprehensive spirit in it, so that his soul seemed 10 
to inhabit the universe like a palace, and to discover truth 
by intuition, rather than by deduction. The next day 
Wordsworth arrived from Bristol at Coleridge's cottage. I 
think I see him now. He answered in some degree to his 
friend's description of him, but was more gaunt and Don 15 
Quixote-like. He was quaintly dressed (according to the 
costume of that unconstrained period) in a brown fustian 
jacket and striped pantaloons. There was something of a 
roll, a lounge, in his gait, not unlike his own Peter Bell. There 
was a severe, worn pressure of thought about his temples, a 20 
fire in his eye (as if he saw something in objects more than the 
outward appearance), an intense, high, narrow forehead, a 
Roman nose, cheeks furrowed by strong purpose and feeling, 
and a convulsive inclination to laughter about the mouth, 
a good deal at variance with the solemn, stately expression of 25 
the rest of his face. Chantry's bust wants the marking traits, 
but he was teazed into making it regular and heavy; Hay- 
don's head of him, introduced into the Entrance of Christ into 
Jerusalem, is the most like his drooping weight of thought and 
expression. He sat down and talked very naturally and 30 
freely, with a mixture of clear, gushing accents in his voice, 
a deep guttural intonation, and a strong tincture of the north- 
ern burr, like the crust on wine. He instantly began to make 
havoc of the half of a Cheshire cheese on the table, and sai 1 
triumphantly that "his marriage with experience had not 35 
been so productive as Mr. Southey's in teaching him a knowl- 
edge of the good things of this life. " He had been to see the 
Castle Spectre, by Monk Lewis, while at Bristol, and described 



16 AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCE 

it very well. He said '4t fitted the taste of the audience like a 
glove. '' This ad captandum merit was however by no means 
a recommendation of it, according to the severe principles of 
the new school, which reject rather than court popular effect. 
5 Wordsworth, looking out of the low, latticed window, said, 
''How beautifully the sun sets on that yellow bank!" I 
thought within myself, "With what eyes these poets see 
nature!" and ever after, when I saw the sunset stream upon 
the objects facing it, conceived I had made a discovery, or 

10 thanked Mr. Wordsworth for having made one for me! We 
went over to AU-Foxden again the day following, and Words- 
worth read us the story of Peter Bell in the open air; and the 
comment made upon it by his face and voice was very differ- 
ent from that of some later critics! Whatever might be 

15 thought of the poem, ''his face was as a book where men 
might read strange matters, " and he announced the fate of his 
hero in prophetic tones. There is a cliaunt in the recitation 
both of Coleridge and Wordsworth, which acts as a spell upon 
the hearer, and disarms the judgment. Perhaps they have 

20 deceived themselves by making habitual use of this ambiguous 
accompaniment. Coleridge's manner is more full, animated, 
and varied; Wordsworth's more equable, sustained, and in- 
ternal. The one might be termed more dramatic, the other 
more lyrical. Coleridge has told me that he himself liked to 

25 compose in walking over uneven ground, or breaking through 
the straggling branches of a copsewood; whereas Wordsworth 
always wrote (if he could) walking up and down a straight 
gravel-walk, or in some spot where the continuity of his verse 
met with no collateral interruption. Returning that same 

30 evening, I got into a metaphysical argument with Words- 
worth, while Coleridge was explaining the different notes of 
the nightingale to his sister, in which we neither of us suc- 
ceeded in making ourselves perfectly clear and intelligible. 
Thus I passed three weeks at Nether Stowey and in the 

35 neighbourhood, generally devoting the afternoons to a de- 
lightful chat in an arbour made of bark by the poet's friend 
Tom Poole, sitting under two fine elm trees, and listening to 
the bees humming round us, while we quaffed our flip. It was 



MY FIRST ACQUAINTANCE WITH POETS 17 

agreed, among other things, that we should make a jaunt down 
the Bristol-Channel, as far as Linton. We set off together 
on foot, Coleridge, John Chester, and I. This Chester was a 
native of Nether Stowey, one of those who were attracted to 
Coleridge's discourse as flies are to honey, or bees in swarming- 5 
time to the sound of a brass pan. He "followed in the chase 
like a dog who hunts, not like one that made up the cry." 
He had on a brown cloth coat, boots, and corduroy breeches, 
was low in stature, bow-legged, had a drag in his walk like a 
drover, which he assisted by a hazel switch, and kept on a sort 10 
of trot by the side of Coleridge, like a running footman by 
a state coach, that he might not lose a syllable or sound that 
fell from Coleridge's lips. He told me his private opinion, 
that Coleridge was a wonderful man. He scarcely opened his 
lips, much less offered an opinion the whole way; yet of the 15 
three, had I to choose during the journey, I would be John 
Chester. He afterwards followed Coleridge into Germany, 
where the Kantean philosophers were puzzled how to bring 
him under any of their categories. When he sat down at table 
with his idol, John's felicity was complete; Sir Walter Scott's 20 
or Mr. Blackwood's, when they sat dowTi at the same table 
with the King, was not more so. We passed Dunster on our 
right, a small town between the brow of a hill and the sea. 
I remember eyeing it wistfully as it lay below us; contrasted 
with the woody scene around, it looked as clear, as pure, as 25 
embrowned and ideal as any landscape I have seen since, of 
Gasper Poussin's or Domenichino's. We had a long day's 
march — (our feet kept time to the echoes of Coleridge's 
tongue) — through Minehead and by the Blue Anchor, and 
on to Linton, which we did not reach till near midnight, and 30 
where we had some difficulty in making a lodgment. We 
however knocked the people of the house up at last, and we 
were repaid for our apprehensions and fatigue by some ex- 
cellent rashers of fried bacon and eggs. The view in coming 
along had been splendid. We walked for miles and miles on S5 
dark brown heaths overlooking the channel, with the Welsh 
hills beyond, and at times descended into little sheltered val- 
leys close by the seaside, with a smuggler's face scowling by 



18 AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCE 

US, and then had to ascend conical hills with a path winding up 
through a coppice to a barren top, like a monk's shaven crown, 
from one of which I pointed out to Coleridge's notice the bare 
masts of a vessel on the very edge of the horizon and within 

5 the red-orbed disk of the setting sun, like his own spectre-ship 
in the A7icient Manner. At Linton the character of the sea- 
coast becomes more marked and rugged. There is a place 
called the Valleij of Rocks (I suspect this was only the poetical 
name for it) bedded among precipices overhanging the sea, 

10 with rocky caverns beneath, into which the waves dash, and 
where the sea-gull forever wheels its screaming flight. On 
the tops of these are huge stones thrown transverse, as if an 
earthquake had tossed them there, and behind these is a fret- 
work of perpendicular rocks, somiething like the Giant's 

15 Causeway. A thunderstorm came on while we were at the 
inn, and Coleridge was running out bareheaded to enjoy the 
commotion of the elements in the Valley of the Rocks, but as if 
in spite, the clouds only muttered a few angry sounds, and let 
fall a few refreshing drops. Coleridge told me that he and 

20 Wordsworth were to have made this place the scene of a 
prose tale, which was to have been in the manner of, but far 
superior to, the Death of Abel, but they had relinquished the 
design. In the morning of the second day, we breakfasted 
luxuriously in an old-fashioned parlour, on tea, toast, eggs, 

25 and honey, in the very sight of the bee-hives from which it had 
been taken, and a garden full of thyme and wild flowers that 
had produced it. On this occasion Coleridge spoke of Virgil's 
Georgics, but not well. I do not think he had much feeling 
for the classical or elegant. It was in this room that we found 

30 a little worn-out copy of the Seasons, lying in a window-seat, 
on which Coleridge exclaimed, " That is true fame!" He said 
Thomson was a great poet, rather than a good one; his style 
was as meretricious as his thoughts were natural. He spoke 
of Cowper as the best modern poet. He said the Lyrical 

35 Ballads were an experiment about to be tried by him and 
Wordsworth, to see how far the public taste would endure 
poetry written in a more natural and simple style than had 
hitherto been attempted; totally discarding the artifices of 



MY FIRST ACQUAINTANCE WITH POETS 19 

poetical diction, and making use only of such words as had 
probably been common in the most ordinary language since 
the days of Henry II. Some comparison was introduced 
between Shakespeare and Milton. He said "he hardly knew 
which to prefer. Shakespeare appeared to him a mere strip- 5 
ling in the art; he was as tall and as strong, with infinitely 
more activity than Milton, but he never appeared to have 
come to man's estate; or if he had, he would not have been 
a man, but a monster." He spoke with contempt of Gray, 
and with intolerance of Pope. He did not like the versi-lO 
fication of the latter. He observed that " the ears of these 
couplet-writers might be charged with having short memories 
that could not retain the harmony of whole passages. " He 
thought little of Junius as a writer; he had a dislike of Dr. 
Johnson; and a much higher opinion of Burke as an orator 15 
and politician, than of Fox or Pitt. He however thought him 
very inferior in richness of style and imagery to some of our 
elder prose writers, particularly Jeremy Tajdor. He liked 
Richardson, but not Fielding; nor could I get him to enter into 
the merits of Caleb Williams.^ In short, he was profound and 20 
discriminating with respect to those authors whom he liked, 
and where he gave his judgment fair play; capricious, per- 
verse, and prejudiced in his antipathies and distastes. We 
loitered on the "ribbed sea-sands," in such talk as this, a 
whole morning, and I recollect met with a curious seaweed, 25 
of which John Chester told us the country name. A fisher- 
man gave Coleridge an account of a boy that had been 
drowned the day before, and that they had tried to save him 
at the risk of their own lives. He said "he did not know how 
it was that they ventured, but, Sir, we have a nature towards 30 
one another." This expression, Coleridge remarked to me, 

1 He had no idea of pictures, of Claude or Raphael, and at this 
time I had as little as he. He sometimes gives a striking account at 
present of the cartoons at Pisa, by Buffamalco and others; of one 
in particular where Death is seen in the air brandishing his scythe, 35 
and the great and mighty of the earth shudder at his approach, 
while the beggars and the wretched kneel to him as their deliverer. 
He would of course understand so broad and fine a moral as this at 
any time. 



20 AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCE 

was a fine illustration of that theory of disinterestedness 
which I (in common with Butler) had adopted. I broached 
to him an argument of mine to prove that likeness was not 
mere association of ideas. I said that the mark in the sand 

5 put one in mind of a man's foot, not because it was part of 
a former impression of a man's foot (for it was quite new) 
but because it was like the shape of a man's foot. He as- 
sented to the justness of this distinction (which I have ex- 
plained at length elsewhere, for the benefit of the curious), 

10 and John Chester listened; not from any interest in the sub- 
ject, but because he was astonished that I should be able to 
suggest anything to Coleridge that he did not already know. 
We returned on the third morning, and Coleridge remarked 
the silent cottage-smoke curling up the valleys where, a few 

15 evenings before, we had seen the lights gleaming through the 
dark. 

In a day or two after we arrived at Stowey, we set out, I on 
my return home, and he for Germany. It was a Sunday 
morning, and he was to preach that day for Dr. Toulmin of 

20 Taunton. I asked him if he had prepared anything for the 
occasion? He said he had not even thought of the text, but 
should as soon as we parted. I did not go to hear him, — this 
was a fault, — but we met in the evening at Bridgewater. 
The next day we had a long day's walk to Bristol, and sat 

25 down, I recollect, by a well-side on the road, to cool ourselves 
and satisfy our thirst, when Coleridge repeated to me some 
descriptive Unes of his tragedy of Remorse, which I must say 
became his mouth and that occasion better than they, some 
years after, did Mr. Elliston's and the Drury-lane boards, — 

30 "Oh! memory! shield me from the world's poor strife, 

And give those scenes thine everlasting life! " 

I saw no more of him for a year or two, during which period 
he had been wandering in the Hartz Forest in Germany; and 
his return was cometary, meteorous, unlike his setting out. 
35 It was not till some time after that I knew his friends Lamb 
and Southey. The last always appears to me (as I first saw 
him) with a commonplace-book under his arm, and the first 



MY FIRST ACQUAINTANCE WITH POETS 21 

with a bon-mot in his mouth. It was at Godwin's that I met 
with Holcroft and Coleridge, where they were disputing 
fiercely which was the best — Man as he was, or man as he is 
to be. "Give me," says Lamb, "man as he is not to be." 
This saying was the beginning of a friendship between us, 
which I beheve still continues. — Enough of this for the 
present. 

"But there is matter for another rhyme, 
And I to this may add a second tale." 



ON READING OLD BOOKS 

I hate to read new books. There are twenty or thirty vol- 
umes that I have read over and over again, and these are the 
only ones that I have any desire ever to read at all. It was a 
long time before I could bring myself to sit down to the Tales 

5 of My Landlord, but now that author's works have made a 
considerable addition to my scanty library. I am told that 
some of Lady Morgan's are good, and have been recommended 
to look into Anastasius; but I have not yet ventured upon 
that task. A lady, the other day, could not refrain from ex- 

10 pressing her surprise to a friend who said he had been reading 
Delphine; — she asked, — If it had not been published some 
time back? Women judge of books as they do of fashions or 
complexions, which are admired only ''in their newest gloss." 
That is not my way. I am not one of those who trouble the 

15 circulating libraries much, or pester the booksellers for mail- 
coach copies of standard periodical publications. I cannot 
say that I am greatly addicted to black-letter, but I profess 
myself well versed in the marble bindings of Andrew Millar, 
in the middle of the last century; nor does my taste revolt 

20 at Thurloe's State Papers, in Russia leather; or an ample 
impression of Sir William Temple's Essays, with a portrait 
after Sir Godfrey Kneller in front. I do not think alto- 
gether the worse of a book for having survived the author a 
generation or two. I have more confidence in the dead than 

25 the living. Contemporary writers may generally be divided 
into two classes — one's friends or one's foes. Of the first 
we are compelled to think too well, and of the last we are 
disposed to think too ill, to receive much genuine pleasure 
from the perusal, or to judge fairly of the merits of either. 

30 One candidate for literary fame, who happens to be of our 
acquaintance, writes finely, and like a man of genius; but 

22 



ON READING OLD BOOKS 23 

unfortunately has a foolish face, which spoils a delicate pass- 
age; — another inspires us with the highest respect for his 
personal talents and character, but does not quite come up to 
our expectations in print. All these contradictions and petty 
details interrupt the calm current of our reflections. If you 5 
want to know what any of the authors were who lived before 
our time, and are still objects of anxious inquiry, you have 
only to look into their works. But the dust and smoke and 
noise of modern hterature have nothing in common with the 
pure, silent air of immortality. 10 

When I take up a work that I have read before (the oftener 
the better) I know what I have to expect. The satisfaction is 
not lessened by being anticipated. When the entertain- 
ment is altogether new, I sit down to it as I should to a strange 
dish, — turn and pick out a bit here and there, and am in 15 
doubt what to think of the composition. There is a want of 
confidence and security to second appetite. New-fangled 
books are also like made-dishes in this respect, that they are 
generally little else than hashes and rifaccimentos of what has 
been served up entire and in a more natural state at other 20 
times. Besides, in thus turning to a well-knowai author, there 
is not only an assurance that my time will not be thrown away, 
or my palate nauseated with the most insipid or vilest trash, 
— but I shake hands with, and look an old, tried, and valued 
friend in the face, — compare notes, and chat the hours away. 25 
It is true, we form dear friendships with such ideal guests — 
dearer, alas! and more lasting, than those with our most in- 
timate acquaintance. In reading a book wliich is an old 
favourite with me (say the first novel I ever read) I not only 
have the pleasure of imagination and of a critical relish of the 30 
work, but the pleasures of memory added to it. It recalls the 
same feelings and associations which I had in first reading it, 
and which I can never have again in any other way. Stand- 
ard productions of this kind are links in the chain of our con- 
scious being. They bind together the different scattered 35 
divisions of our personal identity. They are landmarks and 
guides in our journey through life. They are pegs and loops 
on which we can hang up, or from which we can take down, at 



24 AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCE 

pleasure, the wardrobe of a moral imagination, the relics of 
our best affections, the tokens and records of our happiest 
hours. They are "for thoughts and for remembrance." 
They are like Fortunatus's wishing-cap — they give us the 
5 best riches — .those of Fancy; and transport us, not over half 
the globe, but (which is better) over half our lives, at a word's 
notice. 

My father Shandy solaced himself with Bruscamhille. 
Give me for this purpose a volume of Peregrine Pickle or Tom 

10 Jones. Open either of them anywhere — at the Memoirs of 
Lady Vane, or the adventures at the masquerade with Lady 
Bellaston, or the disputes between Thwackum and Square, or 
the escape of Molly Seagrim, or the incident of Sophia and her 
muff, or the edifying prolixity of her aunt's lecture — and 

15 there I find the same delightful, busy, bustling scene as ever, 
and feel myself the same as when I was first introduced into 
the midst of it. Nay, sometimes the sight of an odd volume 
of these good old Enghsh authors on a stall, or the name 
lettered on the back among others on the shelves of a library, 

20 answers the purpose, revives the whole train of ideas, and 
sets "the puppets dallying." Twenty years are struck off 
the list, and I am a child again. A sage philosopher, who was 
not a very wise man, said that he should like very well to 
be young again if he could take his experience along with 

25 him. This ingenious person did not seem to be aware, by 
the gravity of his remark, that the great advantage of being 
young is to be without this weight of experience, which he 
would fain place upon the shoulders of youth, and which never 
comes too late with years. Oh! what a privilege to be able 

30 to let this hump, like Christian's burthen, drop from off one's 
back, and transport oneself, by the help of a httle musty 
duodecimo, to the time when "ignorance was bliss," and 
when we first got a peep at the raree-show of the world 
through the glass of fiction — gazing at mankind, as we do at 

35 wild beasts in a menagerie, through the bars of their cages, — 
or at curiosities in a museum, that we must not touch! For 
myself, not only are the old ideas of the contents of the work 
brought back to my mind in all their vividness, but the old 



ON READING OLD BOOKS 25 

associations of the faces and persons of those I then knew, as 
they were in their hfetime — the place where I sat to read 
the volume, the day when I got it, the feehng of the air, the 
fields, the sky — return, and all my early impressions with 
them. This is better to me — those places, those times, those 5 
persons, and those feelings that come across me as I retrace 
the story and devour the page, are to me better far than the 
wet sheets of the last new novel from the Ballantyne press, 
to say nothing of the Minerva press in Leadenhall-street. It 
is like visiting the scenes of early youth. I think of the time 10 
"when I was in my father's house, and my path ran down with 
butter and honey," — when I was a httle, thoughtless child 
and had no other wish or care but to con my daily task and 
be happy! — Tom Jones, I remember, was the first work that 
broke the spell. It came dowTi in numbers once a fortnight, 15 
in Cooke's pocket edition, embellished with cuts. I had 
hitherto read only in school-books, and a tiresome ecclesias- 
tical history (with the exception of Mrs. Radcliffe's Romance 
of the Forest) ; but tliis had a different relish with it, — 
"sweet in the mouth," though not "bitter in the belly. "20 
It smacKcd of the world I lived in and in which I was to live — 
and showed me groups, "gay creatures" not "of the element," 
but of the earth; "living in the clouds," but traveUing the 
same road that I did; — some that have passed on before me, 
and others that might soon overtake me. My heart had 25 
palpitated at the thoughts of a boarding-school ball, or gala- 
day at Midsunmier or Christmas; but the world I had found 
out in Cooke's edition of the British Novelists was to me a 
dance through life, a perpetual gala-day. The six-penny 
numbers of this work regularly contrived to leave off just in 30 
the middle of a sentence, and in the nick of a story, where 
Tom Jones discovers Square behind the blanket; or where 
Parson Adams, in the inextricable confusion of events, very 
undesignedly gets to bed to Mrs. SUp-slop. Let me caution 
the reader against this impression of Joseph Andrews; for 35 
there is a picture of Fanny in it which he should not set his 
heart on, lest he should never meet with anything like it; 
or if he should, it would, perhaps, be better for him that he 



26 AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCE 

had not. It was just like ! With what eagerness I 

used to look forward to the next number, and open the prints! 
Ah! never again shall I feel the enthusiastic delight with which 
I gazed at the figures, and anticipated the story and adven- 
5 tures of Major Bath and Commodore Trunnion, of Trim and 
my Uncle Toby, of Don Quixote and Sancho and Dapple, of 
Gil Bias and Dame Lorenza Sephora, of Laura and the fair 
Lucretia, whose lips open and shut like buds of roses. To 
what nameless ideas did they give rise, — with what airy 

10 delights I filled up the outlines, as I hung in silence over the 
page! — Let me still recall them, that they may breathe fresh 
life into me, and that I may live that birthday of thought and 
romantic pleasure over again! Talk of the ideal! This is the 
only true ideal — the heavenly tints of Fancy reflected in the 

15 bubbles that float upon the spring-tide of human life. 

O Memory! shield me from the world's poor strife, 
And give those scenes thine everlasting life! 

The paradox with which I set out is, I hope, less startling 
than it was; the reader will, by this time, have been let into 

20 my secret. Much about the same time, or I believe rather 
earlier, I took a particular satisfaction in reading Chubb's 
Tracts, and I often think I will get them again to wade 
through. There is a high gusto of polemical divinity in 
them; and you fancy that you hear a club of shoemakers at 

25 Salisbury, debating a disputable text from one of St. Paul's 
Epistles in a workmanlike style, with equal shrewdness and 
pertinacity. I cannot say much for my metaphysical studies, 
into which I launched shortly after with great ardour, so as 
to make a toil of a pleasure. I was presently entangled in 

30 the briars and thorns of subtle distinctions, — of "fate, free- 
will, foreknowledge absolute," though I cannot add that 
''in their wandering mazes I found no end;" for I did arrive 
at some very satisfactory and potent conclusions; nor will I 
go so far, however ungrateful the subject might seem, as to 

35 exclaim with Marlowe's Faustus — "Would I had never seen 
Wittenberg, never read book" —that is, never studied such 
authors as Hartley, Hume, Berkeley, etc. Locke's Essay on 



ON READING OLD BOOKS 27 

the Human Understanding is, however, a work from which I 
never derived either pleasure or profit; and Hobbes, dry and 
powerful as he is, I did not read till long afterwards. I read 
a few poets, which did not much hit my taste, — for I would 
have the reader understand, I am deficient in the faculty of 5 
imagination; but I fell early upon French romances and 
philosophy, and devoured them tooth-and-nail. Many a 
dainty repast have I made of the New Eloise; — the descrip- 
tion of the kiss; the excursion on the water; the letter of St. 
Preux, recalling the tune of their first loves; and the account 10 
of Julia's death; these I read over and over again with un- 
speakable delight and wonder. Some years after, when I 
met with this work again, I found I had lost nearly my whole 
relish for it (except some few parts) and was, I remember, 
very much mortified with the change in my taste, which 1 15 
sought to attribute to the smallness and gilt edges of the 
edition I had bought, and its being perfumed with rose-leaves. 
Nothing could exceed the gravity, the solemnity with which 
I carried home and read the Dedication to the Social Con- 
tract, with some other pieces of the same author, which I had 20 
picked up at a stall in a coarse leathern cover. Of the 
Confessions I have spoken elsewhere, and may repeat what 
I have said — "Sweet is the dew of their memory, and pleas- 
ant the balm of their recollection! " Their beauties are not 
''scattered like stray gifts o'er the earth," but sown thick on 25 
the page, rich and rare. I wish I had never read the Emilius 
or read it with less implicit faith. I had no occasion to pam- 
per my natural aversion to affectation or pretence, by ro- 
mantic and artificial means. I had better have formed my- 
self on the model of Sir Fopling Flutter. There is a class of 30 
persons whose virtues and most shining qualities sink in, and 
are concealed by, an absorbent ground of modesty and re- 
serve; and such a one I do, without vanity, profess myself .^ 

1 Nearly the same sentiment was wittily and happily expressed by 
a friend, who had some lottery puffs, which he had been employed 35 
to write, returned on his hands for their too great severity of thought 
and classical terseness of style, and who observed on that occasion, 
that "Modest merit never can succeed!" 



28 AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCE 

Now these are the very persons who are likely to attach them- 
selves to the character of Emilius, and of whom it is sure to 
be the bane. This dull, phlegmatic, retiring humour is not 
in a fair way to be corrected, but confirmed and rendered 

5 desperate, by being in that work held up as an object of 
imitation, as an example of simplicity and magnanimity — 
by coming upon us with all the recommendations of novelty, 
surprise, and superiority to the prejudices of the world — by 
being stuck upon a pedestal, made amiable, dazzling, a leurre 

i^de dupe! The reliance on solid worth which it inculcates, 
the preference of sober truth to gaudy tinsel, hangs like a 
millstone round the neck of the imagination — "a load to 
sink a navy" — impedes our progress, and blocks up every 
prospect in life. A man, to get on, to be successful, con- 

15 spicuous, applauded, should not retire upon the centre of his 
conscious resources, but be always at the circumference of 
appearances. He must envelop himself in a halo of mystery 
— he must ride in an equipage of opinion — he must walk 
with a train of self-conceit following him — he must not strip 

20 himself to a buff -jerkin, to the doublet and hose of his real 
merits, but must surround himseK mth a cortege of preju- 
dices, like the signs of the Zodiac — he must seem anything 
but what he is, and then he may pass for anything he pleases. 
The world loves to be amused by hollow professions, to be 

25 deceived by flattering appearances, to live in a state of hal- 
lucination; and can forgive everything but the plain, down- 
right, simple, honest truth — such as we see it chalked out in 
the character of Emilius. — To return from this digression, 
which is a little out of place here. 

30 Books have in a great measure lost their power over me; 
nor can I revive the same interest in them as formerly. I per- 
ceive when a thing is good, rather than feel it. It is true, 

Marcian Colonna is a dainty book; 

and the reading of Mr. Keats's Eve of St. Agnes lately made 

35 me regret that I was not young again. The beautiful and 

tender images there conjured up, "come like shadows — so 

depart." The ''tiger-moth's wings," which he has spread 



ON READING OLD BOOKS 29 

over his rich poetic blazonry, just flit across my fancy; the 
gorgeous twilight window which he has painted over again in 
his verse, to me "blushes" almost in vam "with blood of 
queens and kings." I know how I should have felt at one 
time in reading such passages; and that is all. The sharp, 5 
luscious flavour, the fine aroma, is fled, and nothing but the 
stalk, the bran, the husk of literature is left. If any one were 
to ask me what I read now, I might answer with my Lord 
Hamlet in the play — "Words, words, words." — "What is 
the matter?" — '^ Nothing! ^^ — They have scarce a meaning. 10 
But it was not always so. There was a time when to my 
thinking, every word was a flower or a pearl, like those which 
dropped from the mouth of the little peasant-girl in the fairy 
tale, or like those that fall from the great preacher in the 
Caledonian Chapel! I drank of the stream of knowledge that 15 
tempted, but did not mock my hps, as of the river of Hfe, 
freely. How eagerly I slaked my thirst of German senti- 
ment, "as the hart that panteth for the water-springs;" how 
I bathed and revelled, and added my floods of tears to 
Goethe's Sorrows of Werter, and to Schiller's Robbers — 20 

Giving my stock of more to that which had too much! 

I read, and assented with all my soul to Coleridge's fine 
sonnet, beginning — 

Schiller! that hour I would have wish'd to die, 
If through the shuddering midnight I had sent, 
r : . From the dark dungeon of the tow'r time-rent, 

That fearful voice, a famish'd father's cry! 

I believe I may date my insight into the mysteries of poetry 
from the commencement of my acquaintance with the 
authors of the Lyrical Ballads; at least, my discrimination 30 
of the higher sorts — not my predilection for such writers 
as Goldsmith or Pope: nor do I imagine they will say I got 
my liking for the novelists, or the comic writers, — for the 
characters of Valentine, Tattle, or Miss Prue, from them. If 
so, I must have got from them what they never had them- 35 
selves. In points where poetic diction and conception are 
concerned, I may be at a loss, and liable to be imposed upon; 



30 AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCE 

but in forming an estimate of passages relating to common 
life and manners, I cannot think I am a plagiarist from any 
man. I there " know my cue without a prompter. " I may 
say of such studies — Intus et in cute. I am just able to 
5 admire those literal touches of observation and description 
wliich persons of loftier pretensions overlook and despise. 
I think I comprehend something of the characteristic part of 
Shakspeare; and in huTi indeed, all is characteristic, even 
the nonsense and poetry. I believe it was the celebrated Sir 

lOHumplirey Davy who used to say, that Shakspeare was 
rather a metaphysician than a poet. At any rate, it was not 
ill said. I wish that I had sooner known the dramatic writers 
contemporary with Shakspeare; for in looking them over 
about a year ago, I almost revived my old passion for reading, 

15 and my old delight in books, though they were very nearly 
new to me. The periodical essayists I read long ago. The 
Spectator I liked extremely: but the Taller took my fancy 
most. I read the others soon after, the Rambler, the Ad- 
venturer, the World, the Connoisseur. I was not sorry to get 

20 to the end of them, and have no desire to go regularly through 
them again. I consider myself a thorough adept in Richard- 
son. I like the longest of his novels best, and think no part 
of them tedious; nor should I ask to have anything better 
to do than to read them from beginning to end, to take them 

25 up when I chose, and lay them down when I was tired, in 
some old family mansion in the country, till every word and 
syllable relating to the bright Clarissa, the divine Clementina, 
the beautiful Pamela, "with every trick and line of their 
sweet favour, " were once more '^ graven in my heart's table. " ^ 

30 1 have a sneaking kindness for Mackenzie's Julia de Roubigne 

^ During the peace of Amiens, a young English officer, of the name 
of Lovelace, was presented at Buonaparte's levee. Instead of the 
usual question, "Where have you served, Sir?" the First Consul 
immediately addressed him, "I perceive your name. Sir, is the same 
35 as that of the hero of Richardson's Romance!" Here was a Consul. 
The young man's uncle, who was called Lovelace, told me this anec- 
dote while we were stopping together at Calais. I had also been 
thinking that his was the same name as that of the hero of Richard- 
son's Romance. This is one of my reasons for liking Buonaparte. 



ON READING OLD BOOKS 31 

— for the deserted mansion, and straggling gilliflowers on 
the mouldering garden wall; and still more for his Man of 
Feeling; not that it is better, nor so good; but at the time I 
read it, I sometmies thought of the heroine. Miss Walton, 

and of Miss together, and 'Hhat ligament, fine as it was, 5 

was never broken!" — One of the poets that I have always 
read with most pleasure, and can wander about in forever 
with a sort of voluptuous indolence, is Spenser; and I like 
Chaucer even better. The only writer among the Italians 
I can pretend to any knowledge of, is Boccaccio, and of him 10 
I cannot express half my admiration. His story of the hawk 
I could read and think of from day to day, just as I would 
look at a picture of Titian's! 

I remember, as long ago as the year 1798, going to a neigh- 
bouring town (Shrewsbury, where Farquhar has laid the plot 15 
of his Recruiting Office7') and bringing home with me, "at one 
proud swoop," a copy of Milton's Paradise Lost, and another 
of Burke's Reflections on the French Revolution — both which 
I have still; and I still recollect, when I see the covers, the 
pleasure with which I dipped into them as I returned with my 20 
double prize. I was set up for one while. That time is past 
"with all its giddy raptures;" but I am still anxious to pre- 
serve its memory, "embalmed with odours." — With respect 
to the first of these works, I would be permitted to remark 
here in passing, that it is a sufficient answer to the German 25 
criticism which has since been started against the character 
of Satan {viz., that it is not one of disgusting deformity, or 
pure, defecated malice) to say that Milton has there drawn, 
not the abstract principle of evil, not a devil incarnate, but a 
faUen angel. This is the scriptural account, and the poet has 30 
followed it. We may safely retain such passages as that 
well-known one — 

" His form had not yet lost 

All her original brightness; nor appear'd 

Less than archangel ruin'd, and the excess 35 

Of glory obscur'd " — 

for the theory, which is opposed to them, "falls flat upon the 
grunsel edge, and shames its worshippers." Let us hear no 



32 AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCE 

more then of this monkish cant and bigoted outcry for the 
restoration of the horns and tail of the devil! — Again, as to 
the other work, Burke's Reflections, I took a particular pride 
and pleasure in it, and read it to myself and others for months 
5 afterwards. I had reason for my prejudice in favour of this 
author. To understand an adversary is some praise; to ad- 
mire him is more. I thought I did both; I knew I did one. 
From the first time I ever cast my eyes on anything of 
Burke's (which was an extract from his Letter to a Noble 

10 Lord in a three-times a week paper, The St. James's Chron- 
icle, in 1796), I said to mj/'self, "This is true eloquence: 
this is a man pouring out his mind on paper." All other 
style seemed to me pedantic and impertinent. Dr. John- 
son's was walking on stilts; and even Junius's (who was at 

15 that time a favourite with me) with all his terseness, shrunk 
up into little antithetic points and well-trimmed sentences. 
But Burke's style was forked and playful as the lightning, 
crested like the serpent. He delivered plain things on a 
plain ground; but when he rose, there was no end of his 

20 flights and circumgyrations — and in this very Letter, "he, 
like an eagle in a dove-cot, fluttered his Volscians" (the Duke 
of Bedford and the Earl of Lauderdale)^ "in Corioli." I 
did not care for his doctrines, I was then, and am still, proof 
against their contagion; but I admired the author, and was 

25 considered as not a very staunch partisan of the opposite side, 
though I thought myself that an abstract proposition was one 
thing — a masterly transition, a brilliant metaphor, another. 
I conceived too that he might be wrong in his main argument, 
and yet deliver fifty truths in arriving at a false conclusion. I 

30 remember Coleridge assuring me, as a poetical and political 
set-off to my sceptical admiration, that Wordsworth had 
written an Essay on Marriage, which, for manly thought and 
nervous expression, he deemed incomparably superior. As I 
had not, at that time, seen any specimens of Mr. Words- 

35 worth's prose style; I could not express my doubts on the 
subject. If there are greater prose-writers than Burke, they 

1 He is there called ' ' Citizen Lauderdale. ' ' Is this the present Earl? 



ON READING OLD BOOKS 33 

either lie out of my course of study, or are beyond my sphere 
of comprehension. I am too old to be a convert to a new 
mythology of genius. The niches are occupied, the tables are 
full. If such is still my admiration of this man's misapplied 
powers, what must it have been at a time when I myself was 5 
in vain trying, year after year, to write a single essay, nay, 
a single page or sentence; when I regarded the wonders of 
his pen with the longing eyes of one who was dumb and a 
changeling; and when, to be able to convey the slightest 
conception of my meaning to others in words, was the height 10 
of an almost hopeless ambition! But I never measured others' 
excellences by my own defects; though a sense of my own , 
incapacity, and of the steep, impassable ascent from me to 
them, made me regard them with greater awe and fondness. 
I have thus run through most of my early studies and favourite 15 
authors, some of whom I have since criticised more at large. 
Whether those observations will survive me, I neither know 
nor do I much care; but to the works themselves, "worthy of 
all acceptation," and to the feelings they have always excited 
in me since I could distinguish a meaning in language, nothing 20 
shall ever prevent me from looking back with gratitude and 
triumph. To have lived in the cultivation of an intunacy 
with such works, and to have famiharly relished such names, 
is not to have lived quite in vain. 

There are other authors whom I have never read, and yet 25 
whom I have frequently had a great desire to read, from some 
circumstance relating to them. Among these is Lord Claren- 
don's History of the Grand Rebellion, after which I have a 
hankering, from hearing it spoken of by good judges — from 
my interest in the events, and knowledge of the characters 30 
from other sources, and from having seen fine portraits of most 
of them I like to read a well-penned character, and Claren- 
don is said to have been a master in this way. I should like 
to read Froissart's Chronicles, Holinshed and Stowe, and 
Fuller's Worthies. I intend, whenever I can, to read Beau- 35 
mont and Fletcher all through. There are fifty-two of their 
plays, and I have only read a dozen or fourteen of them. A 
Wife for a Month and Thierry and Theodoret are, I am told, 



34 AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCE 

delicious, and I can believe it. I should like to read the 
speeches in Thucydides, and Guicciardini's History of Florence, 
and Don Quixote in the original. I have often thought of 
reading the Loves of Persiles and Sigismunda, and the Galatea 
5 of the same author. But I somehow reserve them like 
"another Yarrow." I should also like to read the last new 
novel (if I could be sure it was so) of the author of Waverley; — 
no one would be more glad than I to find it the best! 



WHETHER GENIUS IS CONSCIOUS OF 
ITS POWERS? 

No really great man ever thought hunself so. The idea of 
greatness in the mind answers but ill to our knowledge — or to 
our ignorance of ourselves. What living prose- writer, for 
instance, would think of comparing himself with Burke? Yet 
would it not have been equal presumption or egotism in him 5 
to fancy liimself equal to those who had gone before him ■ — 
Bolingbroke or Johnson, or Sir William Temple? Because 
his rank in letters is become a settled point with us, we con- 
clude that it must have been quite as self-evident to him, and 
that he must have been perfectly conscious of his vast superi- 10 
ority to the rest of the world. Alas! not so. No man is truly 
himself, but in the idea which others entertain of him. The 
mind, as well as the eye, "sees not itself, but by reflection 
from some other thing. " What parity can there be between 
the effect of habitual composition on the mind of the individ- 15 
ual, and the surprise occasioned by first reading a fine passage 
in an admired author; between what Vvc do with ease, and 
• what we thought it next to impossible ever to be done; be- 
tween the reverential awe we have for years encouraged, 
without seeing reason to alter it, for distinguished genius, 20 
and the slow, reluctant, unwelcome conviction that after 
infinite toil and repeated disappointments, and when it is too 
late and to httle purpose, we have ourselves at length ac- 
comphshed what we at first proposed; between the insignif- 
icance of our petty, personal pretensions, and the vastness25 
and splendour which the atmosphere of imagination lends to 
an illustrious name? He who comes up to his own idea of 
greatness must always have had a very low standard of it in 
his mind. "What a pity," said some one, ^Hhat Milton had 
not the pleasure of reading Paradise Lost!^' He could not 30 
read it as we do, with the weight of impression that a hundred 
years of admiration have added to it — "a phoenix gazed by 

35 



36 AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCE 

all" — with the sense of the number of editions it has passed 
through with still increasing reputation, with the tone of 
solidity, time-proof, which it has received from the breath of 
cold, envious maligners, with the sound which the voice of 

5 Fame has lent to every line of it! The writer of an ephemeral 
production may be as much dazzled with it as the public: 
it may sparkle in his own eyes for a moment, and be soon 
forgotten by every one else. But no one can anticipate the 
suffrages of posterity. Every man, in judging of himself, 

10 is his own contemporary. He may feel the gale of popularity, 
but he cannot tell how long it will last. His opinion of him- 
self wants distance, wants time, wants numbers, to set it 
off and confirm it. He must be indifferent to his own merits 
before he can feel a confidence in them. Besides, everyone 

15 must be sensible of a thousand weaknesses and deficiencies in 
himself; whereas Genius only leaves behind it the monuments 
of its strength. A great name is an abstraction of some one 
excellence; but whoever fancies himseff an abstraction of 
excellence; so far from being great, may be sure that he is a 

20 blockhead, equally ignorant of excellence or defect, of himself 
or others. Mr. Burke, besides being the author of the Re- 
flections and the Letter to a Noble Lord, had a wife and son; 
and had to think as much about them as we do about him. 
The imagination gains nothing by the minute details of per- 

25sonal knowledge. 

On the other hand, it may be said that no man knows so 
well as the author of any performance what it has cost him, 
and the length of time and study devoted to it. This is one, 
among other reasons, why no man can pronounce an opinion 

30 upon himself. The happiness of the result bears no propor- 
tion to the difficulties overcome or the pains taken. Ma- 
teriam superabat opus (the workmanship surpasses the ma- 
terials) is an old and fatal complaint. The definition of 
genius is that it acts unconsciously; and those who have 

35 produced immortal works have done so without knowing how 
or why. The greatest power operates unseen, and executes 
its appointed task with as httle ostentation as difficulty. 
Whatever is done best is done from the natural bent and dis- 



IS GENIUS CONSCIOUS OF ITS POWERS 37 

position of the mind. It is only where our incapacity begins 
that we begin to feel the obstacles, and to set an undue value 
on our triumph over them. Correggio, Michael Angelo, 
Rembrandt, did what they did without premeditation or effort 
— their works came from their minds as a natural birth — if 5 
you had asked them why they adopted this or that style, they 
would have answered, because theij could not help it, and be- 
cause they knew of no other. So Shakespeare says : — 

"Our poesy is as a gum which oozes 
From whence 'tis nourished: the fire i' the flint 10 

Shows not tni it be struck: our gentle flame 
Provokes itself; and, like the current, flies 
Each bound it chafes." 

Shakespeare himself was an example of his own rule, and 
appears to have owed almost everything to industry or design. 15 
His poetry flashes from him like the lightning from the sum- 
mer cloud, or the stroke from the sun-flower. When we look 
at the admirable comic designs of Hogarth, they seem from 
the unfinished state in which they are left, and from the 
freedom of the pencilling, to have cost him little trouble; 20 
whereas the Sigisrnunda is a very laboured and compara- 
tively feeble performance, and he accordingly set great store 
by it. He also thought highly of his portraits, and boasted 
that "he could paint equal to Vandyke, give him his time, 
and let him choose his subject." This was the very reason 25 
why he could not. Vandyke's excellence consisted in this, 
that he could paint a fine portrait of anyone at sight; let 
him take ever so much pains or choose ever so bad a subject, 
he could not help making something of it. His eye, his mind, 
his hand was cast in the mould of grace and delicacy. Milton, 30 
again, is imderstood to have preferred Paradise Regained to 
his other works. This, if so, was either because he himself 
was conscious of having failed in it, or because others thought 
he had. We are willing to think well of that which we know 
wants our favourable opinion, and to prop the rickety bant- 35 
ling. Every step taken, invito, Minerva, costs us something, 
and is set down to account ; whereas we are borne on the full 
tide of genius and success into the very haven of our desires 



38 AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCE 

almost imperceptibly. The strength of the impulse by which 
we are carried along prevents the sense of difficulty or re- 
sistance; the true inspiration of the Muse is soft and balmy 
as the air we breathe; and indeed leaves us little to boast of, 
5 for the effect hardly seems to be our own. 

There are two persons. who always appear to me to have 
worked under this involuntary, silent impulse more than any 
others; I mean Rembrandt and Correggio. It is not known 
that Correggio ever saw a picture of any great master. He 

10 lived and died obscurely in an obscure village. We have few 
of his works, but they are all perfect. What truth, what 
grace, what angelic sweetness are there! Not one line or tone 
that is not divinely soft or exquisitely fair; the painter's mind 
rejecting, by a natural process, all that is discordant, coarse, 

15 or unpleasing. The whole is an emanation of pure thought. 
The work grew under his hand as if of itself, and came out 
without a flaw, like the diamond from the rock. He knew 
not what he did; and looked at each modest grace as it stole 
from the canvas with anxious delight and wonder. Ah! 

20 gracious God! not he alone; how many more in all time have 
looked at their works with the same feelings, not knowing 
but they too may have done something divine, immortal, and 
finding in that sole doubt ample amends for pining solitude, 
for want, neglect, and an untimely fate. Oh! for one hour 

25 of that uneasy rapture, when the mind first thinks that it has 
struck out something that may last for ever; when the germ 
of excellence burst from nothing on the startled sight! Take, 
take away the gaudy triumphs of the world, the long deathless 
shout of fame, and give back that heartfelt sigh with which 

30 the youthful enthusiast first weds immortality as his secret 
bride! And thou too, Rembrandt! Thou wert a man of 
genius if ever painter was a man of genius! — did this dream 
hang over you as you painted that strange picture of Jacob's 
Ladder? Did your eye strain over those gradual dusky 

35 clouds into futurity, or did those white-vested, beaked figures 
babble to you of fame as they approached? Did you know 
what you were about, or did you not paint much as it hap- 
pened? Oh! if you had thought once about yourself, or any- 



IS GENIUS CONSCIOUS OF ITS POWERS 39 

thing but the subject, it would have been all over with "the 
glory, the intuition, the amenity," the dream had fled, the 
spell had been broken. The hills would not have looked like 
those we see in sleep — that tatterdemalion figure of Jacob, 
thrown on one side, would not have slept as if the breath was 5 
fairly taken out of his body. So much do Rembrandt's pic- 
tures savour of the soul and body of reality, that the thoughts 
seem identical with the objects — if there had been the least 
question what he should have done, or how he should do it, 
or how far he had succeeded, it would have spoiled everything, lo 
Lumps of light hung upon his pencil and fell upon his canvas 
like dewdrops; the shadowj^ veil was drawn over his back- 
grounds by the dull, obtuse finger of night, making darkness 
visible by still greater darkness that could only be felt! 

Cervantes is another instance of a man of genius, whose 15 
work may be said to have sprung from his mind, like Minerva 
from the head of Jupiter. Don Quixote and Sancho were a 
kind of twins; and the jests of the latter, as he says, fell from 
him like drops of rain when he least thought of it. Shake- 
speare's creations were more multiform, but equally natural 20 
and imstudied. Raphael and Milton seem partial exceptions 
to this rule. Their productions were the composite order; 
and those of the latter sometimes even amount to centos. 
Accordingly, we find Milton quoted among those authors who 
have left proofs of their entertaining a high opinion of them- 25 
selves, and of cherishing a strong aspiration after fame. Some 
of Shakespeare's sonnets have been also cited to the same 
purpose; but they seem rather to convey w^ayward and dis- 
satisfied complaints of his untoward fortune than anything 
like a triumphant and confident reliance on his future renown. 30 
He appears to have stood more alone and to have thought less 
about himself than any living being. One reason for this 
indifference may have been, that as a writer he was tolerably 
successful in his lifetime, and no doubt produced his works 
with very great facility. 35 

I hardly know w^hether to class Claude Lorraine as among 
those who succeeded most "through happiness or pains. " It 
is certain that he imitated no one, and has had no successful 



40 AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCE 

imitator. The perfection of his landscapes seems to have 
been owing to an inherent quahty of harmony, to an exquisite 
sense of dehcacy in his mind. His monotony has been com- 
plained of, which is apparently produced from a preconceived 
5 idea in his mind ; and not long ago I heard a person, not more 
distinguished for the subtilty than the naivete of his sarcasms, 
remark, "Oh! I never look at Claude: if one has seen one of 
his pictures, one has seen them all; they are every one alil^e: 
there is the same sky, the same climate, the same time of day, 

10 the same tree, and that tree is like a cabbage. To be sure, 
they say he did pretty well; but when a man is always doing 
one thing, he ought to do it pretty well. " There is no occasion 
to write the name under this criticism, and the best answer to 
it is that it is true — his pictures always are the same, but we 

15 never wish them to be otherwise. Perfection is one thing. 
I confess I think that Claude knew this, and felt that his were 
the finest landscapes in the world — that ever had been, or 
would ever be. 

I am not in the humour to pursue this argument any far- 

20 ther at present, but to write a digression. If the reader is not 
already apprised of it, he will please to take notice that I 
write this at Winterslow. My style there is apt to be re- 
dundant and excursive. At other times it may be cramped, 
dry, abrupt; but here it flows like a river, and overspreads 

25 its banks. I have not to seek for thoughts or hunt for images : 
they come of themselves, I inhale them with the breeze, and 
the silent groves are vocal with a thousand recollections — 

"And visions, as poetic eyes avow, 
Hang on each leaf, and cling to ev'ry bough." 

30 Here I came fifteen years ago, a willing exile; and as I trod 
the lengthened greensward by the low woodside, repeated the 
old line, 

"My mind to me a kingdom is!" 

I found it so then, before, and since; and shall I faint, now 

35 that I have poured out the spirit of that mind to the world, and 

treated many subjects with truth, with freedom, and power, 

because I have been followed with one cry of abuse ever since 



IS GENIUS CONSCIOUS OF ITS POWERS 41 

for not being a Government tool? Here I returned a few years 
after to finish some works I had undertaken, doubtful of the 
event, but determined to do my best; and wrote that charac- 
ter of Millimant which was once transcribed by fingers fairer 
than Aurora's, but no notice was taken of it, because I was not 5 
a Government tool, and must be supposed devoid of taste 
and elegance by all who aspired to these qualities in their own 
persons. Here I sketched my account of that old honest 
Signior Orlando Friscobaldo, which with its fine, racy, acrid 
tone that old crab-apple, G . ff . . d, would have rehshed or lo 
pretended to relish, had I been a Government tool! Here, too, 
I have written T able-Talks without number, and as yet with- 
out a falling-off, till now that they are nearly done, or I should 
not make this boast. I could swear (were they not mine) the 
thoughts in many of them are founded as the rock, free as air, 15 
the tone like an Italian picture. What then? Had the style 
been like polished steel, as firm and as bright, it would have 
availed me notliing, for I am not a Goverimaent tool! I had 
endeavoured to guide the taste of the English people to the 
best old English writers; but I had said that English kings did 20 
not reign by right divine, and that his present Majesty was 
descended from an Elector of Hanover in a right line; and no 
loyal subject would after this look into Webster or Dekker 
because I had pointed them out. I had done something (more 
than anyone except Schlegel) to vindicate the Characters of 2b 
Shakespeare's Plays from the stigma of French criticism; but 
our Anti-Jacobin and Anti-Gallican writers soon found out that 
I had said and written that Frenchmen, Englishmen, men were 
not slaves by birthright. This was enough to damn the work. 
Such has been the head and front of my offending. While 30 
my friend, Leigh Hunt, was writing the Descent of Liberty, 
and strewing the march of the AUied Sovereigns with flowers, 
I sat by the waters of Babylon and hung my harp upon the 
willows. I knew all along there was but one alternative — the 
cause of kings or of mankind. This I foresaw, this I feared; 35 
the world would see it now, when it is too late. Therefore I 
lamented, and would take no comfort when the Mighty fell, 
because we, all men, fell with him, like lightning from heaven, 



42 AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCE 

to grovel in the grave of Liberty, in the stye of Legitimacy! 
There is but one question in the hearts of monarchs — whether 
mankind are their property or not. There was but this one 
question in mine. I had made an abstract, metaphysical 
5 principle of this question. I was not the dupe of the voice of 
the charmers. By my hatred of tyrants I knew what their 
hatred of the freeborn spirit of man must be, of the semblance, 
of the very name of Liberty and Humanity. And while others 
bowed their heads to the image of the Beast, I spat upon it 

10 and buffeted it, and made mouths at it, and pointed at it, and 
drew aside the veil that then half concealed it but has been 
since thrown off, and named it by its right name ; and it is not 
to be supposed that my having penetrated their mystery 
would go unrequited by those whose darling and whose de- 

15 light the idol, half -brute, half -demon, was, and who were 
ashamed to acknowledge the image and superscription as 
their own! 

Two half -friends of mine, who would not make a whole 
one between them, agreed the other day that the indis- 

20erimmate, incessant abuse of what I write was mere preju- 
dice and party spirit, and that what I do in periodicals and 
without a name does well, pays well, and is "cried out upon 
in the top of the compass. " It is this indeed that has saved 
my shallow skiff from quite foundering on Tory spite and 

25 rancour; for when people have been reading and approving 
an article in a miscellaneous journal, it does not do to say 
when they discover the author afterwards (whatever might 
have been the case before) it is written by a blockhead; and 
even Mr. Jerdan recommends the volume of Characteristics as 

30 an excellent little work, because it has no cabalistic name in 
the title-page, and swears "there is a first-rate article of forty 
pages in the last number of the Edinburgh from Jeffrey's own 
hand, " though when he learns against his will that it is mine, 
he devotes three successive numbers of the Literary Gazette to 

35 abuse "that strange article in the last number of the Edin- 
burgh Review.'^ Others who had not this advantage have 
fallen a sacrifice to the obloquy attached to the suspicion of 
doubting, or of being acquainted with anyone who is known 



IS GENIUS CONSCIOUS OF ITS POWERS 43 

to doubt, the divinity of kings. Poor Keats paid the forfeit 
of this leze majeste with liis health and life. What, though his 
verses were like the breath of spring, and many of his thoughts 
like flowers — would this, with the circle of critics that beset 
a throne, lessen the crime of their having been praised in the 5 
Examiner? The lively and most agreeable editor of that 
paper has in like manner been driven from his country and liis 
friends who delighted in him, for no other reason than having 
written the Story of Rimini, and asserted ten years ago, ''that 
the most accomplished prince in Europe was an Adonis of 10 
fifty!" 

"Return, Alpheus, the dread voice is past 
That shrunk thy streams; return Sicilian Muse!" 

I look out of my window and see that a shower has just fallen: 
the fields look green after it, and a rosy cloud hangs over the 15 
brow of the hill; a lily expands its petals in the moisture, 
dressed in its lovely green and white; a shepherd boy has just 
brought some pieces of turf with daisies and grass for his young 
mistress to make a bed for her skylark, not doomed to dip his 
wings in the dappled dawn — my cloudy thoughts draw off, 20 
the storm of angry politics has blown over — Mr. Blackwood, 
I am yours — Mr. Croker, my service to you — Mr. T. Moore, 
I am alive and well — really, it is wonderful how little the 
worse I am for fifteen years' wear and tear, how I came upon 
my legs again on the ground of truth and nature, and "look 25 
abroad into universahty, " forgetting that there is any such 
person as myself in the world! 

I have let this passage stand (however critical) because it 
may serve as a practical illustration to show what authors 
really think of themselves when put upon the defensive — 30 
(1 confess, the subject has nothing to do with the title at the 
head 01 the Essay!) — and as a warning to those who may 
reckon upon their fair portion of popularity, as the reward of 
the exercise of an independent spirit and such talents as they 
possess. It sometimes seems at first sight as if the low scur- 35 
rihty and jargon of abuse by which it is attempted to overlay 
all common sense and decency by the tissue of lies and nick- 
names everlastingly repeated and applied indiscriminately 



44 AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCE 

to all those who are not of the regular Government party, 
was peculiar to the present time, and the anomalous growth 
of modern criticism; but if we look back, we shall find the same 
system acted upon as often as power, prejudice, dullness, and 
5 spite found their account in playing the game into one an- 
other's hands — in decrying popular efforts, and in giving 
currency to every species of base metal that had their own 
conventional stamp upon it. The names of Pope and Dry den 
were assailed with daily and unsparing abuse; the epithet 

10 A. P. E. was levelled at the sacred head of the former; and if 
even men like these, having to deal with the consciousness of 
their own infirmities and the insolence and spurns of wanton 
enmity, must have found it hard to possess their souls in 
patience, any living writer amidst such contradictory evidence 

15 can scarcely expect to retain much calm, steady conviction 
of his own merits, or build himself a secure reversion in im- 
mortality. 

However one may in a fit of spleen and impatience turn 
round and assert' one's claims in the face of low-bred, hireling 

20 malice, I will here repeat what I set out with saying, that there 
never yet was a man of sense and proper spirit who would not 
decline rather than court a comparison with any of those 
names whose reputation he really emulates — who would not 
be sorry to suppose that any of the great heirs of memory had 

25 as many foibles as he knows himself to possess — and who 
would not shrink from including himself or being included by 
others in the same praise that was offered to long-established 
and universally acknowledged merits, as a kind of profa- 
nation. Those who are ready to fancy themselves Raphaels 

30 and Homers are very inferior men indeed — they have not 
even an idea of the mighty names that "they take in vain." 
They are as deficient in pride as in modesty, and have not so 
much as served an apprenticeship to a true and honourable 
ambition. They mistake a momentary popularity for lasting 

35 renown, and a sanguine temperament for the inspirations of 
genius. The love of fame is too high and delicate a feeling 
in the mind to be "mixed up with realities — it is a solitary 
abstraction, the secret sigh of the soul — 



IS GENIUS CONSCIOUS OF ITS POWERS 45 

"It is all one as we should love 
A bright particular star, and think to wed it. " 

A name "fast-anchored in the deep abyss of time" is like a 
star twinkhng in the firmanent, cold, silent, distant, but 
eternal and sublime; and our transmitting one to posterity 5 
is as if we should contemplate our translation to the skies. 
If we are not contented with this feeling on the subject, we 
shall never sit in Cassiopeia's chair, nor will our names, 
studding Ariadne's crown or streaming with Berenice's locks, 
ever make 10 

"the face of heaven so bright, 
That birds shall sing, and think it were not night." 

Those who are in love only with noise and show, instead of 
devoting themselves to a life of study, had better hire a booth 
at Bartlemy Fair, or march at the head of a recruiting regi- 15 
ment with drums beating and colours flying! 

It has been urged that however little we may be disposed to 
indulge the reflection at other times or out of mere seK-com- 
placency, yet the mind cannot help being conscious of the 
effort required for any great work while it is about it, of 20 

"The high endeavour and the glad success." 

I grant that there is a sense of power in such cases, with the 
exception before stated; but then this very effort and state 
of excitement engrosses the mind at the time, and leaves it 
listless and exhausted afterwards. The energy we exert, or 25 
the high state of enjoyment we feel, puts us out of conceit 
with ourselves at other times; compared to what we are in 
the act of composition, we seem dull, commonplace people, 
generally speaking; and what we have been able to perform 
is rather matter of wonder than of self -congratulation to us. 30 
The stimulus of writing is like the stimulus of intoxication, 
with which we can hardly sympathise in our sober moments, 
when we are no longer under the inspiration of the demon, or 
when the virtue is gone out of us. While we are engaged in 
any work, we are thinking of the subject, and cannot stop to 35 
admire ourselves; and when it is done, we look at it with 
comparative indifference. I will venture to say that no one 



46 AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCE 

but a pedant ever read his own works regularly through. 
They are not his — they are become mere words, waste 
paper, and have none of the glow, the creative enthusiasm, 
the vehemence, and natural spirit with which he wrote them. 
5 When we have once committed our thoughts to paper, written 
them fairly out, and seen that they are right in the printing, if 
we are in our right wits, we have done with them forever. I 
sometimes try to read an article I have written in some 
magazine or review — (for when they are bound up in a 

10 volume, I dread the very sight of them) — but stop after a 
sentence or two, and never recur to the task. I know pretty 
well what I have to say on the subject, and do not want to 
go to school to myself. It is the worst instance of the his 
repetita crambe in the world. I do not think that even 

15 painters have much dehght in looking at their works after they 
are done. While they are in progress, there is a great degree 
of satisfaction in considering what has been done, or what is 
still to do — but this is hope, is reverie', and ceases with the 
completion of our efforts. I should not imagine Raphael or 

20 Correggio would have much pleasure in looking at their former 
works, though they might recollect the pleasure they had had 
in painting them; they might spy defects in them (for the 
idea of unattainable perfection still keeps pace with our actual 
approaches to it), and fancy that they were not worthy of 

25 immortality. The greatest portrait painter the world ever 
saw used to write under his pictures, "Titianus faciebat/' 
signifying that they were imperfect; and in his letter to 
Charles V accompanying one of his most admired works, he 
only spoke of the time he had been about it. Annibal 

30 Caracci boasted that he could do like Titian and Correggio, 
and, like most boasters, was wrong. (See his spirited letter 
to his cousin Ludovico, on seeing the pictures at Parma.) 

The greatest pleasure in life is that of reading, while we are 
young. I have had as much of tliis pleasure as perhaps 

35 anyone. As I grow older, it fades; or else, the stronger 
stimulus of writing takes off the edge of it. At present, I have 
neither time nor inclination for it; yet I should like to devote a 
year's entire leisure to a course of the English novelists; and 



IS GENIUS CONSCIOUS OF ITS POWERS 47 

perhaps clap on that sly old knave, Sir Walter, to the end of 
the Hst. It is astonishing how I used formerly to relish the 
style of certain authors, at a time when I myself despaired of 
ever writing a single line. Probably this was the reason. It is 
not in mental as in natural ascent — intellectual objects seem 5 
higher when we survey them from below, than when we look 
down from any given elevation above the common level. My 
three favourite writers about the time I speak of were Burke, 
Junius, and Rousseau. I was never weary of admiring and 
wondering at the felicities of the style, the turns of expression, lo 
the refinements of thought and sentiment. I laid the book 
down to find out the secret of so much strength and beauty, 
and I took it up again in despair, to read on and admire. 
So I passed whole days, months, and I may add, years; and 
have only this to say now, that as my life began, so I could 15 
wish that it may end. The last time I tasted this luxury in 
its full perfection was one day after a sultry day's walk in 
summer between Farnham and Alton. I was fairly tired 
out; I walked into an inn-yard (I think at the latter place); 
I was shown by the waiter to what looked at first like common 20 
out-houses at the other end of it, but they turned out to be a 
suite of rooms, probably a hundred years old — the one I 
entered opened into an old-fashioned garden, embeUished 
with beds of larkspur and a leaden Mercury; it was wain- 
scotted, and there was a grave-looking, dark-coloured por-25 
trait of Charles II hangmg over the tiled cliimney-piece. 
I had Love for Love in my pocket, and began to read ; coffee 
was brought in in a silver coffee-pot; the cream, the bread and 
butter, everything was excellent, and the flavour of Con- 
greve's style prevailed over all. I prolonged the entertain- 30 
ment till a late hour, and rehshed this divine comedy better 
even than when I used to see it played by Miss MeUon, as 
Miss Lrue; Bob Palmer, as Tattle; and Bannister, as honest 
Ben. This circumstance happened just five years ago, and it 
seems like yesterday. If I count my fife so by lustres, it will 35 
soon glide away; yet I shall not have to repine, if, while it 
lasts, it is enriched with a few such recollections! 



A FAREWELL TO ESSAY-WRITING 

" This life is best, if quiet life is best." 

Food, warmth, sleep, and a book; these are all I at present 
ask — the ultima thule of my wandering desires. Do you 
not then wish for 

5 "A friend in your retreat, 

Whom you may whisper, solitude is sweet?" 

Expected, well enough : — gone, still better. Such attractions 
are strengthened by distance. Nor a mistress? "Beautiful 
mask! I know thee!" When I can judge of the heart from 

10 the face, of the thoughts from the lips, I may again trust 
myseK. Instead of these, give me the robin red-breast, peck- 
ing the crumbs at the door, or warbling on the leafless spray, 
the same glancing form that has followed me wherever I have 
been, and "done its spiriting gently;" or the rich notes of 

15 the thrush that startle the ear of winter, and seem to have 
drunk up the full draught of joy from the very sense of con- 
trast. To these I adhere and am faithful, for they are true to 
me; and, dear in themselves, are dearer for the sake of what 
is departed, leading me back (by the hand) to that dreaming 

20 world, in the innocence of which they sat and made sweet 
music, waking the promise of future years, and answered by 
the eager throbbings of my own breast. But now "the 
credulous hope of mutual minds is o'er, " and I turn back from 
the world that has deceived me, to nature that lent it a false 

25 beauty and that keeps up the illusion of the past. As I 
quaff my libations of tea in a morning, I love to watch the 
clouds sailing from the west, and fancy that "the spring 
comes slowly up this way." In this hope, while "fields are 
dank and ways are mire," I follow the same direction to a 

30 neighbouring wood, where, having gained the dry, level greens- 
ward, I can see my way for a mile before me, closed in on 
each side by copsewood, and ending in a point of light more or 

48 



A FAREWELL TO ESSAY-WRITING 49 

less brilliant, as the day is bright or cloudy. What a walk 
is this to me! I have no need of book or companion — the 
days, the hours, the thoughts of my youth are at my side 
and blend with the air that fans my cheek. Here I can 
saunter for hours, bending my eye forward, stopping and 5 
turning to look back, thinking to strike off into some less 
trodden path, yet hesitating to quit the one I am in, afraid to 
snap the brittle threads of memory. I remark the shining 
trunks and slender branches of the birch trees, waving in the 
idle breeze; or a pheasant springs up on whirring wing; or 1 10 
recall the spot where I once found a wood-pigeon at the foot of 
a tree, weltering in its gore, and think how many seasons have 
flo\vn since "it left its little life in air." Dates, names, faces 
come back — to what purpose? Or why think of them now? 
Or rather, why not think of them oftener? We walk through 15 
life, as through a narrow path, with a thin curtain drawn 
around it; behind are ranged rich portraits, airy harps are 
strung — yet we will not stretch forth our hands and lift 
aside the veil, to catch glimpses of the one, or sweep the 
chords of the other. As in a theatre, when the old-fashioned 20 
green curtain drew up, groups of figures, fantastic dresses, 
laughing faces, rich banquets, stately columns, gleaming 
vistas appeared beyond; so we have only at any time to 
"peep through the blanket of the past/' to possess ourselves 
at once of all that has regaled our senses, that is stored up in 25 
our memory, that has struck our fancy, that has pierced our 
hearts; — yet to all this we are indifferent, insensible, and 
seem intent only on the present vexation, the future disap- 
pointment. If there is a Titian hanging up in the room with 
me, I scarcely regard it; how then should I be expected to 30 
strain the mental eye so far, or to throw down, by the magic 
spells of the will, the stone walls that enclose it in the Louvre? 
There is one head there of which I have often thought, when 
looking at it, that nothing should ever disturb me again, and 
I would become the character it represents — such perfect 35 
calmness and self-possession reigns in it! Why do I not hang 
an image of this in some dusky comer of my brain and turn 
an eye upon it ever and anon, as I have need of some such talis- 



50 AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCE 

man to calm my troubled thoughts? The attempt is fruit- 
less, if not natural; or, like that of the French, to hang gar- 
lands on the grave, and to conjure back the dead by miniature 
pictures of them while living! It is only some actual coin- 
5 cidence or local association that tends, without violence, to 
''open all the cells where memory slept." I can easily, by 
stooping over the long-sprent grass and clay-cold clod, recall 
the tufts of primroses, or purple hyacinths, that formerly grew 
on the same spot, and cover the bushes with leaves and sing- 
le ing birds, as they were eighteen summers ago ; or prolonging 
my walk and hearing the sighing gale rustle through a tall, 
straight wood at the end of it, can fancy that I distinguish the 
cry of hounds, and the fatal group issuing from it, as in the 
tale of Theodore and Honoria. A moaning gust of wind aids 
15 the behef ; I look once more to see whether the trees before me 
answer to the idea of the horror-stricken grove, and an air- 
built city towers over their grey tops. 

"Of all the cities in Romanian lands, 
The chief and most renown'd Ravenna stands." 

20 1 return home resolved to read the entire poem through, and, 
after dinner, drawing my chair to the fire, and holding a small 
print close to my eyes, launch into the full tide of Dryden's 
couplets (a stream of sound), comparing his didactic and de- 
scriptive pomp with the simple pathos and picturesque truth 

25 of Boccaccio's story, and tasting with a pleasure, which none 
but an habitual reader can feel, some quaint examples of 
pronunciation in this accomplished versifier. 

"Which when Honoria view'd, 
The fresh impulse her former fright renew'd." 
30 Theodore and Honoria 

"And made th' insult, which in his grief appears, 
The means to mourn thee with my pious tears. " 

Sigismonda and Guiscardo 

These trifling instances of the wavering and unsettled state of 
35 the language give double effect to the firm and stately march 
of the verse, and make me dwell with a sort of tender interest 
on the difliculties and doubts of an earlier period of literature. 
They pronounced words then in a manner which we should 



A FAREWELL TO ESSAY- WRITING 51 

laugh at now; and they wrote verse in a manner which we can 
do anything but laugh at. The pride of a new acquisition 
seems to give fresh confidence to it ; to impel the rolling syl- 
lables through the moulds provided for them, and to overflow 
the envious bounds of rhjnne into time-honoured triplets. 5 
I am much pleased with Leigh Hunt's mention of Moore's 
involuntary admiration of Dryden's free, unshackled verse, 
and of his repeating con amore, and with an Irish spirit and 
accent, the fine lines — 

"Let honour and preferment go for gold, 10 

But glorious beauty isn't to be sold." 

What sometimes surprises me in looking back to the past, is, 
with the exception already stated, to find myself so little 
changed in the time. The same images and trains of thought 
stick by me; I have the same tastes, likings, sentiments, and 15 
wishes that I had then. One great ground of confidence and 
support has, indeed, been struck from under my feet; but I 
have made it up to myself by proportionable pertinacity of 
opinion. The success of the great cause, to which I had 
vowed myself, was to me more than all the world; I had a 20 
strength in its strength, a resource which I knew not of, till 
it failed me for the second time. 

"Fall'n was Glenartny's stately tree! 
Oh! ne'er to see Lord Ronald more!" 

It was not till I saw the axe laid to the root, that I found the 25 
full extent of what I had to lose and suffer. But my convic- 
tion of the right was only established by the triumph of the 
wrong; and my earliest hopes will be my last regrets. One 
source of this unbendingness (which some may call obstinacy), 
is that, though living much alone, I have never worshipped 30 
the echo. I see plainly enough that black is not white, that 
the grass is green, that kings are not their subjects; and, in 
such self-evident cases, do not think it necessary to collate 
my opinions with the received prejudices. In subtler ques- 
tions, and matters that admit of doubt, as I do not impose 35 
my opinion on others without a reason, so I will not give up 
mine to them without a better reason; and a person calling me 



52 AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCE 

names, or giving himseK airs of authority, does not convince 
me of his having taken more pains to find out the truth than 
I have, but the contrary. Mr. Gifford once said, that "while 
I was sitting over my gin and tobacco pipes, I fancied myself 
5 a Leibnitz. " He did not so much as know that I had ever 
read a metaphysical book: — was I therefore, out of com- 
plaisance or deference to him, to forget whether I had or not? 
I am rather disappointed, both on my own account and his, 
that Mr. Hunt has missed the opportunity of explaining the 

10 character of a friend as clearly as he might have done. He 
is puzzled to reconcile the shyness of my pretensions with the 
inveteracy and sturdiness of my principles. I should have 
thought they were nearly the same thing. Both from dis- 
position and habit, I can assume nothing in word, look, or 

15 manner. I cannot steal a march upon public opinion in any 
way. My standing upright, speaking loud, entering a room 
gracefully, proves nothing; therefore I neglect these ordinary 
means of recommending myself to the good graces and admira- 
tion of strangers (and, as it appears, even of philosophers and 

20 friends). Why? Because I have other resources, or, at least, 
am absorbed in other studies and pursuits. Suppose this 
absorption to be extreme, and even morbid — that I have 
brooded over an idea till it has become a kind of substance in 
my brain, that I have reasons for a thing which I have found 

25 out with much labour and pains, and to which I can scarcely 
do justice without the utmost violence of exertion (and that 
only to a few persons) — is this a reason for my playing off 
my out-of-the-way notions in all companies, wearing a prim 
and self-complacent air, as if I were "the admired of all ob- 

30 servers"? or is it not rather an argument (together with a 
want of animal spirits), why I should retire into myself, and 
perhaps acquire a nervous and uneasy look, from a conscious- 
ness of the disproportion between the interest and conviction 
I feel on certain subjects, and my ability to communicate what 

35 weighs upon my own mind to others? If my ideas, which I 
do not avouch, but suppose, lie below the surface, why am I 
to be always attempting to dazzle superficial people with them, 
or smiling, delighted, at my own want of success? 



A FAREWELL TO ESSAY-WRITING 53 

What I have here stated is only the excess of the common 
and well-known English and scholastic character. I am 
neither a buffoon, a fop, nor a Frenchman, which Mr. Hmit 
would have me to be. He finds it odd that I am a close 
reasoner and a loose dresser. I have been (among other foUies) 5 
a hard liver as well as a hard thinker; and the consequences 
of that will not allow me to dress as I please. People in 
real life are not lilvc players on a stage, who put on a certain 
look or costume, merely for effect. I am aware, indeed, that 
the gay and airy pen of the author does not seriously probe 10 
the errors or misfortunes of his friends — he only glances at 
their seeming peculiarities, so as to make them odd and 
ridiculous; for which forbearance few of them will thank 
him. Why does he assert that I was vain of my hair when it 
was black, and am equally vain of it now it is grey, when this 15 
is true in neither case? This transposition of motives makes 
me almost doubt whether Lord Byron was thinking so much 
of the rings on his fingers as his biographer was. These sort 
of criticisms should be left to women. I am made to wear 
a little hat, stuck on the top of my head the wrong way. Nay, 20 
I commonly wear a large sloucliing hat over my eyebrows; 
and if ever I had another, I must have twisted it about in any 
shape to get rid of the annoyance. This probably tickled 
Mr. Hunt's fancy and retains possession of it, to the exclusion 
of the obvious truism that I naturally wear "a melancholy 25 
hat." 

I am charged with using strange gestures and contortions 
of features in argument, in order to '4ook energetic." One 
would rather suppose that the heat of the argument produced 
the extravagance of the gestures, as I am said to be calm at 30 
other times. It is like saying that a man in a passion clenches 
his teeth, not because he is, but in order to seem, angry. Why 
should everything be construed into air and affectation? 
With Hamlet, I may say, '^I know not seems. ^^ 

Again, my old friend and pleasant "Companion" remarks 35 
it, as an anomaly in my character, that I crawl about the 
fives-court like a cripple till I get the racket in my hand, 
when I start up as if I was possessed with a devil. I have 



54 AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCE 

then a motive for exertion; I lie by for difficulties and ex- 
treme cases. Aut Coesar aut nullus. I have no notion of 
doing nothing with an air of importance, nor should I ever 
take a liking to the game of battledoor and shuttlecock. I 
5 have only seen by accident a page of the unpublished manu- 
script relating to the present subject, which I dare say is, on 
the whole, friendly and just, and which has been suppressed 
as being too favourable, considering certain prejudices against 
me. 

10 In matters of taste and feeling, one proof that my conclu- 
sions have not been quite shallow or hasty, is the circum- 
stance of their having been lasting. I have the same favour- 
ite books, pictures, passages that I ever had; I may therefore 
presume that they will last me my life — nay, I may indulge 

15 a hope that my thoughts will survive me. This continuity 
of impression is the only thing on which I pride myself. 

Even L , whose relish on certain things is as keen and 

earnest as possible, takes a surfeit of admiration, and I 
should be afraid to ask about his select authors or particular 

20 friends, after a lapse of ten years. As to myself, anyone 
knows where to have me. What I have once made up my 
mind to, I abide by to the end of the chapter. One cause of 
my independence of opinion is, I believe, the liberty I give 
to others, or the very diffidence and distrust of making con- 

25 verts. I should be an excellent man on a jury: I might say 
little, but should starve ''the other eleven obstinate fellows'^ 
out. I remember Mr. Godwin writing to Mr. Wordsworth 
that ''his tragedy of Antonio could not fail of success." It 
was damned past all redemption. I said to Mr. Wordsworth 

30 that I thought this a natural consequence > for how could any 
one have a dramatic turn of mind who judged entirely of 
others from himself? Mr. Godwin might be convinced of the 
excellence of his work; but how could he know that others 
would be convinced of it, unless by supposing that they were 

35 as wise as himself, and as infallible critics of dramatic poetry 
— so many Aristotles sitting in judgment on Euripides! 
This shows why pride is connected with shyness and reserve; 
for the really proud have not so high an opinion of the gener^ 



A FAREWELL TO ESSAY-WRITING 55 

ality as to suppose that they can understand them, or that 
there is any common measure between them. So Dry den 
exclaims of his opponents with* bitter disdain — 

"Nor can I thiuk what thoughts they can conceive." 

I have not sought to make partisans, still less did I dream of 5 
making enemies; and have therefore kept my opinions my- 
self, whether they were currently adopted or not. To get 
others to come into our ways of thinking, we must go over to 
theirs; and it is necessary to follow, in order to lead. At the 
time I lived here formerly, I had no suspicion that I should 10 
ever become a voluminous writer; yet I had just the same 
confidence in my feelings before I had ventured to air them 
in public as I have now. Neither the outcry for or against 
moves me a jot; I do not say that the one is not more agree- 
able than the other. 15 

Not far from the spot where I write, I first read Chaucer's 
Flower and Leaf, and was charmed with that young beauty, 
shrouded in her bower, and listening with ever-fresh delight 
to the repeated song of the nightingale close by her — the 
impression of the scene, the vernal landscape, the cool of the 20 
morning, the gushing notes of the songstress, 

"And ayen, methought she sung close by mine ear," 

is as vivid as if it had been of yesterday; and nothing can 
persuade me that that is not a fine poem. I do not find this 
impression conveyed in Dryden's version, and therefore noth- 25 
ing can persuade me that that is as fine. I used to walk out 

at this time with Mr. and Miss L of an evening to look 

at the Claude Lorraine skies over our heads, melting from 
azure into purple and gold, and to gather mushrooms, that 
sprung up at our feet, to throw into our hashed mutton at 30 
supper. I was at that time an enthusiastic admirer of 
Claude, and could dwell forever on one or two of the finest 
prints from him hung round my little room: the fleecy flocks, 
the bending trees, the winding streams, the groves, the 
nodding temples, the air-wove hills, and distant sunny vales; 35 
and tried to translate them into their lovely living hues. 



56 AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND REMINISCENCE 

People then told me that Wilson was much superior to Claude. 
I did not believe them. Their pictures have since been seen 
together at the British Institution, and all the world have 
come into my opinion. I have not, on that account, given 
5 it up. I will not compare our hashed mutton with Ameha's; 
but it put us in mind of it, and led to a discussion, sharply- 
seasoned and well sustained, till midnight, the result of which 
appeared some years after in the Edinburgh Review. Have I 
a better opinion of those criticisms on that account, or should 

10 1 therefore maintain them with greater vehemence and tena- 
ciousness? Oh, no! Both rather with less, now that they 
are before the public, and it is for them to make their election. 
It is in looking back to such scenes that I draw my best con- 
solation for the future. Later impressions come and go, and 

15 serve to fill up the intervals; but these are my standing re- 
source, my true classics. If I have had few real pleasures or 
advantages, my ideas, from their sinewy texture, have been 
to me in the nature of realities; and if I should not be able to 
add to the stock, I can live by husbanding the interest. As 

20 to my speculations, there is little to admire in them but my 
admiration of others; and whether they have an echo in time 
to come or not, I have learned to set a grateful value on the 
past, and am content to wind up the account of what is per- 
sonal only to myself and the immediate circle of objects in 

25 which I have moved, with an act of easy oblivion, 

"And curtain close such scene from every future view." 



ON CLASSICAL EDUCATION 

The study of the classics is less to be regarded as an exer- 
cise of the intellect, than as a "discipline of humanity." 
The peculiar advantage of this mode of education consists 
not so much in strengthening the understanding, as in soften- 
ing and refining the taste. It gives men liberal views; it 5 
accustoms the mind to take an interest in things foreign to 
itself; to love virtue for its own sake; to prefer fame to life, 
glory to riches; and to fix our thoughts on the remote and 
permanent, instead of narrow and fleeting objects. It teaches 
us to believe that there is something really great and excellent 10 
in the world, survivmg all the shocks of accident and fluc- 
tuations of opinion,' and raises us above that low and servile 
fear which bows only to present power and upstart authority. 
Rome and Athens filled a place in the history of mankind, 
which can never be occupied again. They were two cities 15 
set on a hill, which could not be hid; aU eyes have seen them, 
and their light shines like a mighty sea-mark into the abyss 
of time. 

"Still green with bays each ancient altar stands, 

Above the reach of sacrilegious hands; 20 

Secure from flames, from envy's fiercest rage, 

Destructive war, and all-involving age. 

Hail, bards triumphant, born in happier days, 

Immortal heirs of universal praise! 

Whose honours with increasing ages, grow, 25 

As streams roll down, enlarging as they flow!" 

It is this feeling, more than anything else, which produces 
a marked difference between the study of the ancient and 
modern languages, and which, from the weight and importance 
of the consequences attached to the former, stamps every 30 
word with a monumental firmness. By conversing with the 
mighty dead, we imbibe sentiment with knowledge; we become 
strongly attached to those who can no longer hurt or serve 
us, except through the influence which they exert over the 

57 



58 PHILOSOPHY AND REFLECTION 

mind. We feel the presence of that power which gives im- 
mortaUty to human thoughts and actions, and catch the 
flame of enthusiasm from all nations and ages. 

It is hard to find in minds otherwise formed, either a real 

5 love of excellence, or a behef that any excellence exists 
superior to their own. Everything is brought down to the 
vulgar level of their own ideas and pursuits. Persons with- 
out education certainly do not want either acuteness or 
strength of mind in what concerns themselves or in things 

10 immediately within their observation; but they have no 
power of abstraction, no general standard of taste or scale 
of opinion. They see their objects always near, and never 
in the horizon. Hence arises that egotism which has been 
remarked as the characteristic of self-taught men, and which 

15 degenerates into obstinate prejudice or petulant fickleness of 
opinion, according to the natural sluggishness or activity of 
their minds. For they either become blindly bigoted to the 
first opinions they have struck out for themselves, and in- 
accessible to conviction ; or else (the dupes of their own van- 

20 ity and shrewdness) are everlasting converts to every crude 
suggestion that presents itself, and the last opinion is al- 
ways the true one. Each successive discovery flashes upon 
them with equal light and evidence, and every new fact 
overturns their whole system. It is among this class of 

25 persons, whose ideas never extend beyond the feeling of the 
moment, that we find partisans, who are very honest men, 
with a total want of principle, and who unite the most hard- 
ened effrontery and intolerance of opinion, to endless in- 
consistency and self-contradiction. 

30 A celebrated political writer of the present day, who is a 
great enemy to classical education, is a remarkable instance 
both of what can and what cannot be done without it. 

It has been attempted of late to set up a distinction between 
the education of words, and the education of things, and to 

35 give the preference in all cases to the latter. But, in the 
first place, the knowledge of things, or of the realities of life, 
is not easily to be taught except by things themselves, and, 
even if it were, it is not so absolutely indispensable as it has 



ON CLASSICAL EDUCATION 59 

been supposed. "The world is too much with us, early and 
late"; and the fine dream of our youth is best prolonged 
among the visionary objects of antiquity. We owe many 
of our most amiable delusions, and some of our superiority, 
to the grossness of mere physical existence, to the strength of 5 
our associations with words. Language, if it throws a veil 
over our ideas, adds a softness and refinement to them, like 
that which the atmosphere gives to naked objects. There 
can be no true elegance without taste in style. In the next 
place, we mean absolutely to deny the application of the 10 
principle of utility to the present question. By an obvious 
transposition of ideas, some persons have confounded a 
knowledge of useful things with useful knowledge. Knowl- 
edge is only useful in itself as it exercises or gives pleasure 
to the mind : the only knowledge that is of use in a practical 15 
sense, is professional knowledge. But knowledge, considered 
as a branch of general education, can be of use only to the 
mind of the person acquiring it. If the knowledge of lan- 
guage produces pedants, the other kind of knowledge (which 
is supposed to be substituted for it) can only produce quacks. 20 
There is no question but that the knowledge of astronomy, 
of chemistry, and of agriculture, is highly useful to the world, 
and absolutely necessary to be acquired by persons carrying 
on certain professions; but the practical utiKty of a knowl- 
edge of these subjects ends there. For example, it is of the 25 
utmost importance to the navigator to know exactly in what 
degree of longitude and latitude such a rock lies; but to us, 
sitting here about our Round Table, it is not of the smallest 
consequence whatever, whether the map-maker has placed it 
an inch to the right or to the left; we are in no danger of run- 30 
ning against it. So the art of making shoes is a highly useful 
art, and very proper to be known and practised by somebody: 
that is, by the shoemaker. But to pretend that everyone 
else should be thoroughly acquainted with the whole process 
of this ingenious handicraft, as one branch of useful knowl-35 
edge, would be preposterous. It is sometimes asked, what is 
the use of poetry, and we have heard the argument carried 
on ahnost like a parody of Falstaff's reasoning about Honour. 



60 PHILOSOPHY AND REFLECTION 

"Can it set a leg? No. Or an arm? No. Or take away the 
grief of a wound? No. Poetry hath no skill in surgery then? 
No." It is likely that the most enthusiastic lover of poetry 
would so far agree to the truth of this statement, that if he 
5 had just broken a leg, he would send for a surgeon, instead 
of a volume of poems from a library. But, "they that are 
whole need not a physician. " The reasoning would be well 
founded if we lived in a hospital and not in the world. 



ON THE IGNORANCE OF THE LEARNED 

"For the more languages a man can speak, 
His talent has but sprung the greater leak; 
And, for the industry he has spent upon 't, 
Must full as much some other way discount. 
The Hebrew, Chaldee, and the Syriac 5 

Do, like their letters, set men's reason back. 
And turn their wits that strive to understand it 
(Like those that write the characters) left-handed. 
Yet he that is but able to express 

No sense at all in several languages, 10 

Will pass for learneder than he that's known 
To speak the strongest reason in his own." 

The description of persons who have the fewest ideas of all 
others are mere authors and readers. It is better to be able 
neither to read nor write than to be able to do nothing else. 15 
A lounger who is ordinarily seen with a book in his hand is 
(we may be almost sure) equally without the power or in- 
clination to attend either to what passes around him or in 
his own mind. Such a one may be said to carry his under- 
standing about with him in his pocket, or to leave it at home 20 
on his Hbrary shelves. He is afraid of venturing on any train 
of reasoning, or of striking out any observation that is not 
mechanically suggested to him by passing his eyes over certain 
legible characters ; shrinks from the fatigue of thought, which, 
for want of practice, becomes insupportable to him; and sits 25 
down contented with an endless wearisome succession of 
words and half -formed images which fill the void of the mind 
and continuaUy efface one another. Learning is, in too many 
cases, but a foil to common sense; a substitute for true 
knowledge. Books are less often made use of as "spectacles " 30 
to look at nature with, than as blinds to keep out its strong 
light and shifting scenery from weak eyes and indolent dis- 
positions. The book-worm wraps himself up in his web of 
verbal generalities, and sees only the glimmering shadows of 
things reflected from the minds of others. Nature puts him 35 

61 



62 PHILOSOPHY AND REFLECTION 

out. The impressions of real objects, stripped of the dis- 
guises of words and voluminous roundabout descriptions, are 
blows that stagger him; their variety distracts, their rapidity 
exhausts him; and he turns from the bustle, the noise, and 

5 glare, and whirling motion of the world about him (which he 
has not an eye to follow in its fantastic changes, nor an under- 
standing to reduce to fixed principles), to the quiet monotony 
of the dead languages, and the less startling and more in- 
telUgible combinations of the letters of the alphabet. It is 

10 well, it is perfectly well. "Leave me to my repose," is the 
motto of the sleeping and the dead. You might as well ask 
the paralytic to leap from his chair and throw away his 
crutch, or, without a miracle, to "take up his bed and walk, " 
as expect the learned reader to throw down his book and think 

15 for himself. He chngs to it for his intellectual support; 
and his dread of being left to himself is lil^e the horror of a 
vacuum. He can only breathe a learned atmosphere, as 
other men breathe common air. He is a borrower of sense. 
He has no ideas of his own, and must live on those of other 

20 people. The habit of supplying our ideas from foreign 
sources "enfeebles all internal strength of thought," as a 
course of dram-drinking destroys the tone of the stomach. 
The faculties of the mind, when not exerted, or when cramped 
by custom and authority, become listless, torpid, and unfit 

25 for the purposes of thought or action. Can we wonder at 
the languor and lassitude which is thus produced by a life of 
learned sloth and ignorance; by poring over lines and syl- 
lables that excite little more idea or interest than if they were 
the characters of an unknown tongue, till the eye closes on 

30 vacancy, and the book drops from the feeble hand! I would 
rather be a wood-cutter, or the meanest hind, that all day 
"sweats in the eye of Phoebus, and at night sleeps in Ely- 
sium, " than wear out my life so, 'twixt dreaming and awake. 
The learned author differs from the learned student in this, 

35 that the one transcribes what the other reads. The learned 
are mere literary drudges. If you set them upon original 
composition, their heads turn; they don't know where they 
are. The indefatigable readers of books are like the ever- 



''on the ignorance of the learned 63 

lasting copiers of pictures, who, when they attempt to do 
anything of their own, find they want an eye quick enough, 
a hand steady enough, and colours bright enough, to trace the 
living forms of nature. 

Anyone who has passed through the regular gradations of a 5 
classical education, and is not made a fool by it, may consider 
himself as having had a very narrow escape. It is an old 
remark, that boys who shine at school do not make the 
greatest figure when they grow up and come out into the 
world. The things, in fact, which a boy is set to learn at 10 
school, and on wliich his success depends, are things which 
do not require the exercise either of the highest or the most 
useful faculties of the mind. Memory (and that of the lowest 
kind) is the chief faculty called into play in conning over and 
repeating lessons by rote in grammar, in languages, in geog- 15 
raphy, arithmetic, etc., so that he who has the most of this 
technical memory, with the least turn for other things which 
have a stronger and more natural claim upon his childish 
attention, will make the most forward school-boy. The 
jargon containing the definitions of the parts of speech, the 20 
rules for casting up an account, or the inflections of a Greek 
verb can have no attraction to the tyro of ten years old, ex- 
cept as they are imposed as a task upon him by others, or 
from his feelmg the want of sufficient rehsh or amusement 
in other things. A lad with a sickly constitution, and no 25 
very active mind, who can just retain what is pointed out to 
him, and has neither sagacity to distinguish nor spirit to en- 
joy for himself, will generally be at the head of his form. An 
idler at school, on the other hand, is one who has high health 
and spirits, who has the free use of his limbs, with all his wits 30 
about him, who feels the circulation of his blood and the 
motion of his heart, who is ready to laugh and cry in a breath, 
and who had rather chase a ball or a butterfly, feel the open 
air in his face, look at the fields or the sky, follow a winding 
path, or enter with eagerness into aU the little conflicts and 35 
interests of his acquaintances and friends, than doze over a 
musty spelling-book, repeat barbarous distichs after his mas- 
ter, sit so many hours pinioned to a writing desk, and receive 



64 PHILOSOPHY AND REFLECTION 

his reward for the loss of time and pleasure in paltry prize 
medals at Christmas and Midsummer. There is indeed a 
degree of stupidity which prevents children from learning the 
usual lessons, or ever arriving at these puny academic honours. 
5 But what passes for stupidity is much oftener a want of inter- 
est, of a sufficient motive to fix the attention and force a 
reluctant application to the dry and unmeaning pursuits of 
school-learning. The best capacities are as much above this 
drudgery, as the dullest are beneath it. Our men of the 
10 greatest genius have not been most distinguished for their 
acquirements at school or at the university. 

"Th' enthusiast Fancy was a truant ever." 

Gray and Collins were among the instances of this wayward 
disposition. Such persons do not think so highly of the ad- 

15 vantages, nor can they submit their imaginations so ser- 
vilely to the trammels of strict scholastic discipline. There 
is a certain kind and degree of intellect in which words take 
root, but into which things have not power to penetrate. 
A mediocrity of talent, with a certain slenderness of moral 

20 constitution, is the soil that produces the most brilliant 
specimens of successful prize-essayists and Greek epigram- 
matists. It should not be forgotten, that the least respectable 
character among modern politicians was the cleverest boy 
at Eton. 

25 Learning is the knowledge of that which is not generally 
known to others, and which we can only derive at second-hand 
from books or other artificial sources. The knowledge of 
that which is before us, or about us, which appeals to our 
experience, passions, and pursuits, to the bosoms and busi- 

30 nesses of men, is not learning. Learning is the knowledge of 
that which none but the learned know. He is the most 
learned man who knows the most of what is farthest removed 
from common life and actual observation, that is of the least 
practical utility, and least liable to. be brought to the test of 

35 experience, and thatj having been handed down through the 
greatest number of intermediate stages, is the most full of 
uncertainty, difficulties, and contradictions. It is seeing 



ON THE IGNORANCE OF THE LEARNED 65 

with the eyes of others, hearing with their ears, and pinning 
our faith on their understandings. The learned man prides 
himself in the knowledge of names, and dates, not of men or 
things. He thinks and cares nothing about his next-door 
neighbours, but he is deeply read in the tribes and casts of 5 
the Hindoos and Cahnuc Tartars. He can hardly find liis 
way into the next street, though he is acquainted with the 
exact dimensions of Constantinople and Pekin. He does not 
know whether his oldest acquaintance is a knave or a fool, 
but he can pronounce a pompous lecture on all the principal 10 
characters in history. He cannot tell whether an object is 
black or white, round or square, and yet he is a professed 
master of the laws of optics and the rules of perspective. He 
knows as much of what he talks about as a blind man does of 
colours. He cannot give a satisfactory answer to the plain- 15 
est question, nor is he ever in the right in any one of his 
opinions, upon any one matter of fact that really comes 
before him, and yet he gives himself out for an infallible 
judge on all those points of which it is impossible that he or 
any other person living should know anything but by con- 20 
jecture. He is expert in all the dead and in most of the hving 
languages; but he can neither speak his own fluently, nor 
write it correctly. A person of this class, the second Greek 
scholar of his day, undertook to point out several solecisms 
in Milton's Latin style; and in his own performance there is 25 

hardly a sentence of common English. Such was Dr. . 

Such is Dr. . Such was not Porson. He was an ex- 
ception that confirmed the general rule — a man that, by 
uniting talents and knowledge with learning, made the dis- 
tinction between them more striking and palpable. 30 

A mere scholar, who loiows nothing but books, must be 
ignorant even of them. "Books do not teach the use of 
books.'' How should he know anything of a work, who 
knows nothing of the subject of it? The learned pedant is 
conversant with books only as they are made of other books, 35 
and those again of others, without end. He parrots those 
who have parroted others. He can translate the same word 
into ten different languages, but he knows nothing of the 



66 PHILOSOPHY AND REFLECTION 

thing which it means in any one of them. He stuffs his head 
with authorities built on authorities, with quotations quoted 
from quotations, while he locks up his senses, his understand- 
ing, and his heart. He is unacquainted with the maxims and 
5 manners of the world; he is to seek in the characters of in- 
dividuals. He sees no beauty in the face of nature or of art. 
To him ''the mighty world of eye and ear" is hid; and 
''knowledge," except at one entrance, "quite shut out." 
His pride takes part with his ignorance; and his self-impor- 

10 tance rises with the number of things of which he does not 
know the value, and which he therefore despises as unworthy 
of his notice. He knows nothing of pictures ; — " of the colour- 
ing of Titian, the grace of Raphael, the purity of Domenichino, 
the corregiescity of Corregio, the learning of Poussin, the airs 

15 of Guido, the taste of the Caracci, or the grand contour of 
Michael Angelo," — of all those glories of the Italian and 
miracles of the Flemish school, which have filled the eyes of 
mankind with delight, and to the study and imitation of 
which thousands have in vain devoted their lives. These 

20 are to him as if they had never been, a mere dead letter, 
a byword; and no wonder: for he neither sees nor under- 
stands their prototypes in nature. A print of Rubens's 
Watering-place, or Claude's Enchanted Castle, may be hang- 
ing on the walls of his room for months without his once per- 

25 ceiving them; and if you point them out to him, he will turn 
away from them. The language of nature, or of art (which is 
another nature), is one that he does not understand. He 
repeats indeed the names of Apelles and Phidias, because they 
are to be found in classic authors, and boasts of their works 

30 as prodigies, because they no longer exist; or, when he sees 
the finest remains of Grecian art actually before him in 
the Elgin marbles, takes no other interest in them than as- 
they lead to a learned dispute, and (which is the same thing) 
a quarrel about the meaning of a Greek particle. He is 

35 equally ignorant of music; he "knows no touch of it," from 
the strains of the all-accomplished Mozart to the shepherd's 
pipe upon the mountain. His ears are nailed to his books; 
and deadened with the sound of the Greek and Latin tongues, 



ON THE IGNORANCE OF THE LEARNED 67 

and the din and smitheiy of school-learning. Does he know 
anything more of poetry? He knows the number of feet in a 
verse, and of acts in a play; but of the soul or spirit he knows 
nothmg. He can turn a Greek ode into English, or a Latin 
epigram into Greek verse, but whether either is worth the 5 
trouble, he leaves to the critics. Does he understand 'Hhe 
act and practique part of life" better than ''the theorique?" 
No. He knows no liberal or mechanic art; no trade or oc- 
cupation; no game of skill or chance. Learning "has no 
skill in surgery, " in agriculture, in building, in working in 10 
wood or in iron; it caimot make any instrument of labour, 
or use it when made ; it cannot handle the plough or the spade, 
or the chisel or the hammer; it knows nothing of hunting or 
hawking, fishing or shooting, of horses or dogs, of fencing or 
dancing, or cudgel-playing, or bowls, or cards, or tennis, or 15 
anything else. The learned professor of all arts and sciences 
cannot reduce any one of them to practice, though he may 
contribute an account of them to an Encyclopaedia. He has 
not the use of his hands or of his feet; he can neither run, nor 
walk, nor swim; and he considers all those who actually imder- 20 
stand and can exercise any of these arts of body or mind, as 
vulgar and mechanical men; — though to know almost any 
one of them in perfection requires long time and practice, 
with powers originally fitted, and a turn of mind particularly 
devoted to them. It does not require more than this to 25 
enable the learned candidate to arrive, by painful study, at a 
doctor's degree and a fellowship, and to eat, drink, and sleep, 
the rest of his life! 

The thing is plain. All that men really understand, is con- 
fined to a very small compass : to their daily affairs and ex- 30 
perience; to what they have an opportunity to know, and 
motives to study or practise. The rest is affectation and 
imposture. The common people have the use of their limbs; 
for they live by their labour or skill. They understand their 
own business and the characters of those they have to deal 35 
with; for it is necessary that they should. They have elo- 
quence to express their passions, and wit at will to express 
their contempt and provoke laughter. Their natural use of 



68 PHILOSOPHY ANL REFLECTION 

speech is not hung up in monumental mockery, in an obsolete 
language; nor is their sense of what is ludicrous, or readiness 
at finding out allusions to express it, buried in collections of 
Anas. You will hear more good things on the outside of a 

5 stagecoach from London to Oxford, than if you were to pass 
a twelvemonth with the undergraduates, or heads of col- 
leges, of that famous university; and more home truths are to 
be learnt from listening to a noisy debate in an alehouse, 
than from attending to a formal one in the House of Commons. 

10 An elderly country gentlewoman will often know more of 
character, and be able to illustrate it by more amusing anec- 
dotes taken from the history of what has been said, done, and 
gossiped in a country town for the last fifty years, than the 
best blue-stocking of the age will be able to glean from that 

15 sort of learning which consists in an acquaintance with all 
the novels and satirical poems published in the same period. 
People in towns, indeed, are woefully deficient in a knowledge 
of character, which they see only in the bust, not as a whole- 
length. People in the country not only know all that has 

20 happened to a man, but trace his virtues or vices, as they do 
his features, in their descent through several generations, and 
solve some contradiction in his behaviour by a cross in the 
breed, half a century ago. The learned know nothing of the 
matter, either in town or country. Above all, the mass of 

25 society have common sense, which the learned in all ages 
want. The vulgar are in the right when they judge for them- 
selves; they are wrong when they trust to their blind guides. 
The celebrated nonconformist divine, Baxter, was almost 
stoned to death by the good women of Kidderminster, for 

30 asserting from the pulpit that ''hell was paved with infants' 
skulls"; but, by the force of argument and of learned quo- 
tations from the Fathers, the reverend preacher at length 
prevailed over the scruples of his congregation, and over 
reason and humanity. 

35 Such is the use which has been made of human learning. 
The labourers in this vineyard seem as if it was their object to 
confound all common sense, and the distinctions of good and 
evil, by means of traditional maxims and preconceived no- 



ON THE IGNORANCE OF THE LEARNED 69 

tions, taken upon trust, and increasing in absurdity witli 
increase of age. They pile hypothesis on hypothesis, moun- 
tain high, till it is impossible to come at the plain truth on 
any question. They see things, not as they are, but as they 
find them in books; and "wink and shut their apprehensions 5 
up," in order that they may discover nothing to interfere 
with their prejudices or convince them of their absurdity. 
It might be supposed that the height of hmnan wisdom con- 
sisted in maintaining contradictions and rendering nonsense 
sacred. There is no dogma, however fierce or foolish, to 10 
which these persons have not set their seals and tried to 
impose on the understandings of their followers, as the will 
of Heaven, clothed with all the terrors and sanctions of 
religion. How httle has the human understanding been 
directed to find out the true and useful! How much in- 15 
genuity has been thrown away in the defense of creeds and 
systems! How much time and talents have been wasted in 
theological controversy, in law, in pohtics, in verbal criticism, 
in judicial astrology, and in finding out the art of making 
gold! What actual benefit do we reap from the writings of 20 
a Laud or a Whitgift, or of Bishop Bull or Bishop Waterland, 
or Prideaux' Connedmis, or Beausobre, or Calmet, or St. 
Augustine, or Puffendorf, or Vattel, or from the more literal 
but equally learned and unprofitable labours of Scaliger, 
Cardan, and Scioppius? How many grains of sense are there 25 
in their thousand foho or quarto volumes? What would the 
world lose if they were committed to the flames to-morrow? 
Or are they not already "gone to the vault of all the Capu- 
lets?" Yet all these were oracles in their time, and would 
have scoffed at you or me, at conmaon sense and human 30 
nature, for differing with them. It is our turn to laugh now. 
To conclude this subject. The most sensible people to be 
met v/ith in society are men of business and of the world, 
who argue from what they see and know, instead of spinning 
cobweb distinctions of what things ought to be. Women have 35 
often more of what is called good sense than men. They have 
fewer pretensions; are less implicated in theories; and judge 
of objects more from their immediate and involuntary im- 



70 PHILOSOPHY AND REFLECTION 

pression on the mind, and, therefore, more truly and naturally. 
They cannot reason wrong; for they do not reason at all. 
They do not think or speak by rule; and they have in general 
more eloquence and wit, as well as sense, on that account. 
5 By their wit, sense, and eloquence together, they generally 
contrive to govern then- husbands. Their style, when they 
write to their friends (not for the booksellers) is better than 
that of most authors. — Uneducated people have most 
exuberance of invention and the greatest freedom from prej- 

lOudice. -Shakespeare's was evidently an uneducated mind, 
both in the freshness of his imagination and in the variety 
of his views; as Milton's was scholastic in the texture both 
of his thoughts and feelings. Shakespeare had not been 
accustomed to write themes at school in favour of virtue or 

15 against vice. To this we owe the unaffected but healthy tone 
of his dramatic morality. If we wish to know the force of 
human genius, we should read Shakespeare. If we wish to 
see the insignificance of human learning, we may study his 
commentators. 



THE INDIAN JUGGLERS 

Coming forward and seating himself on the ground in his 
white dress and tightened turban, the chief of the Indian 
Jugglers begins with tossing up two brass balls, which is what 
any of us could do, and concludes with keeping up four at 
the same time, which is what none of us could do to save our 5 
lives, nor if we were to take our whole lives to do it in. Is it 
then a trifling power we see at work, or is it not something 
next to miraculous? It is the utmost stretch of human in- 
genuity, which nothing but the bending the faculties of body 
and mind to it from the tenderest infancy with incessant, 10 
ever-anxious application up to manhood, can accomplish or 
make even a shght approach to. Man, thou art a wonderful 
animal and thy ways past finding out ! Thou canst do strange 
things, but thou turnest them to little account! — To con- 
ceive of this effort of extraordinary dexterity distracts the 15 
imagination and makes admiration breathless. Yet it costs 
nothing to the performer, any more than if it were a mere 
mechanical deception with which he had nothing to do but 
to watch and laugh at the astonishment of the spectators. 
A single error of a hair's-breadth, of the smallest conceivable 20 
portion of time, would be fatal: the precision of the move- 
ments must be like a mathematical truth, their rapidity is 
like lightning. To catch four balls in succession in less than 
a second of time, and deliver them back so as to return with 
seeriiing consciousness to the hand again, to make them re- 25 
volve round him at certain intervals, like the planets in their* 
spheres, to make them chase one another like sparkles of fire, 
or she at up like flowers or meteors, to throw them behind his 
back and twine them round his neck like ribbons or like ser- 
pents, to do what appears an impossibility, and to do it with 30 
all the ease, the grace, the carelessness imaginable, to laugh 
at, to play with the glittering mockeries, to follow them with 
his eye as if he could fascinate them with its lambent fire, or 

71 



72 PHILOSOPHY AND REFLECTION 

as if he had only to see that they kept time with the music on 
the stage — there is something in all this which he who does 
not admire may be quite sure he never really admired any- 
thing in the whole course of his life. It is skill surmounting 

5 difficulty, and beauty triumphing over skiU. It seems as if the 
difficulty once mastered naturally resolved itself into ease 
and grace, and as if to be overcome at all, it must be over- 
come without an effort. The smallest awkwardness or want 
of pliancy or self-possession would stop the whole process. 

10 It is the work of witchcraft, and yet sport for children. Some 
of the other feats are quite as curious and wonderful, such as 
the balancing the artificial tree and shooting a bird from each 
branch through a quill; though none of them have the ele- 
gance or facihty of the keeping up of the brass baUs. You 

15 are in pain for the result, and glad when the experiment is 
over; they are not accompanied with the same unmixed, 
unchecked delight as the former; and I would not give much 
to be merely astonished without being pleased at the same 
time. As to the swallowing of the sword, the police ought to 

20 interfere to prevent it. When I saw the Indian Juggler do 
the same things before, his feet were bare, and he had large 
rings on the toes, which kept turning round all the time of the 
performance, as if they moved of themselves. — The hearing 
a speech in Parliament, drawled or stammered out by the 

25 Honourable Member or the Noble Lord, the ringing the 
changes on their common-places, which anyone could repeat 
after them as well as they, stirs me not a jot, shakes not my 
good opinion of myseh: but the seeing the Indian Jugglers 
does. It makes me ashamed of myself. I ask what there 

30 is that I can do as well as this? Nothing. What have I 

* been doing all my life? Have I been idle, or have I nothing 

to shew for all my labour and pains? Or have I passed my 

time in pouring words hke water into empty sieves, rolling a 

stone up a hill and then down again, trying to prove an ar- 

35 gument in the teeth of facts, and looking for" causes in the 
dark, and not finding them? Is there no one thing in which 
I can challenge competition, that I can bring as an instance 
of exact perfection, in which others cannot find a flaw? The 



THE INDIAN JUGGLERS 73 

utmost I can pretend to is to write a description of what this 
fellow can do. I can write a book; so can many others who 
have not even learned to spell. What abortions are these 
Essays! What errors, what ill-pieced transitions, what 
crooked reasons, what lame conclusions! How little is made 5 
out, and that little how ill! Yet they are the best I can do. 
I endeavom' to recollect all I have ever observed or thought 
upon a subject, and to express it as nearly as I can. Instead 
of writing on four subjects at a time, it is as much as I can 
manage to keep the thread of one discourse clear and un- 10 
entangled. I have also time on my hands to correct my 
opinions, and polish my periods: but the one I cannot, and 
the other I will not do. I am fond of arguing; yet with a 
good deal of pains and practice it is often as much as I can do 
to beat my man; though he may be a very indifferent hand. 15 
A common fencer would disarm his adversary in the twink- 
ling of an eye, unless he were a professor like himself. A 
stroke of wit will sometimes produce this effect, but there 
is no such power or superiority in sense or reasoning. There 
is no complete mastery of execution to be shown there; and 20 
you hardly know the professor from the impudent pretender 
or the mere clown. ^ 

I have always had this feeling of the inefficacy and slow 
progress of intellectual compared to mechanical excellence, 
and it has always made me somewhat dissatisfied. It is a 25 
great many years since I saw Richer, the famous rope-dancer, 
perform at Sadler's Wells. He was matchless in his art, and 

1 The celebrated Peter Pindar (Dr. Wolcot) first discovered and 
brought out the talents of the late Mr. Opie, the painter. He was a 
poor Cornish boy, and was out at work in the fields, when the poet 30 
went in search of him. "Well, my lad, can you go and bring me your 
very best picture?" The other fiew like lightning, and soon came 
back with what he considered as his masterpiece. The stranger 
looked at it, and the young artist, after waiting for some time with- 
out his giving any opinion, at length exclaimed eagerly, "Well, what 35 
do you think of it?" "Think of it?" said Wolcot, "why, I think 
you ought to be ashamed of it — that you who might do so well, do 
no better!" The same answer would have applied to this artist's 
latest performances, that had been suggested by one of his earliest 
efforts. 



74 PHILOSOPHY AND REFLECTION 

added to his extraordinary skill exquisite ease and unaffected 
natural grace. I was at that time employed in copying a 
half-length picture of Sir Joshua Reynolds's; and it put me 
out of conceit with it. How ill this part was made out in the 

5 drawing! How heavy, how slovenly this other was painted! 
I could not help saying to myself, ''If the rope-dancer had 
performed his task in this manner, leaving so many gaps and 
botches in his work, he would have broke his neck long ago; 
I should never have seen that vigorous elasticity of nerve and 

10 precision of movement!" — Is it then so easy an undertaking 
(comparatively) to dance on a tight-rope? Let anyone who 
thinks so get up and try. There is the thing. It is that 
which at first we cannot do at all, which in the end is done to 
such perfection. To account for this in some degree, I might 

15 observe that mechanical dexterity is confined to doing some 
one particular thing, which you can repeat as often as you 
please, in which you know whether you succeed or fail, and 
where the point of perfection consists in succeeding in a given 
undertaking. In mechanical efforts, you improve by per- 

20petual practice, and you do so infallibly, because the object 
to be attained is not a matter of taste or fancy or opinion, 
but of actual experiment, in which you must either do the 
thing or not do it. If a man is put to aim at a mark with a 
bow and arrow, he must hit it or miss it, that's certain. He 

25 cannot deceive himself, and go on shooting wide or falling 
short, and still fancy that he is making progress. The dis- 
tinction between right and wrong, between true and false, 
is here palpable; and he must either correct his aim or per- 
severe in his error with his eyes open, for which there is 

30 neither excuse nor temptation. If a man is learning to dance 
on a rope, if he does not mind what he is about, he will break 
his neck. After that, it will be in vain for him to argue that 
he did not make a false step. His situation is not like that 
of Goldsmith's pedagogue. 

35 "In argument they own'd his wondrous skill, 

And e'en though vanquish'd, he could argue still. " 

Danger is a good teacher and makes apt scholars. So are 
disgrace, defeat, exposure to immediate scorn and laughter. 



THE INDIAN JUGGLERS 75 

There is no opportunity in such cases for self-delusion, no 
idhng time away, no being off your guard (or you must take 
the consequences) — neither is there any room for humour or 
caprice or prejudice. If the Indian Juggler were to play 
tricks in throwing up the three case-knives, which keep their 5 
positions like the leaves of a crocus in the air, he would cut 
his fingers, I can make a very bad antithesis without cutting 
my fingers. The tact of style is more ambiguous than that 
of double-edged instruments. If the Juggler were told that 
by flinging himself under the wheels of the Jaggernaut, when lo 
the idol issues forth on a gaudy day, he would immediately 
be transported into Paradise, he might beheve it, and nobody 
could disprove it. So the Brahmins may say what they please 
on that subject, may build up dogmas and mysteries without 
end, and not be detected; but their ingenious countryman 15 
cannot persuade the frequenters of the Olympic Theatre that 
he performs a number of astonishing feats without actually 
giving proofs of what he says. — There is then in this sort 
of manual dexterity, first a gradual aptitude acquired to a 
given exertion of muscular power, from constant repetition, 20 
and in the next place, an exact knowledge how much is still 
wanting and necessary to be supplied. The obvious test is 
to increase the effort or nicety of the operation, and still to 
find it come true. The muscles ply instinctively to the dic- 
tates of habit. Certain movements and impressions of the 25 
hand and eye, having been repeated together an infinite num- 
ber of times, are unconsciously but unavoidably cemented 
into closer and closer union; the limbs require little more than 
to be put in motion for them to follow a regular track with 
ease and certainty; so that the mere intention of the will 30 
acts mathematically, like touching the spring of a machine, 
and you come with Locksley in Ivanhoe, in shooting at a 
mark, 'Ho allow for the wind." 

Farther, what is meant by perfection in mechanical exercise 
is the performing certain feats to a uniform nicety, that is, in 35 
fact, undertaking no more than you can perform. You task 
yourself, the limit you fix is optional, and no more than human 
industry and skill can attain to; but you have no abstract, 



76 PHILOSOPHY AND REFLECTION 

independent standard of difficulty or excellence (other than 
the extent of your own powers). Thus he who can keep up 
four brass balls does this to perfection; but he cannot keep 
up five at the same instant, and would fail every time he at- 
5 tempted it. That is, the mechanical performer undertakes to 
emulate himseK, not to equal another. ^ But the artist under- 
takes to imitate another, or to do what nature has done, and 
this it appears is more difficult, viz. to copy what she has set 
before us in the face of nature or " human face divine," entire 

10 and without a blemish, than to keep up four brass balls at 
the same instant; for the one is done by the power of human 
skill and industry, and the other never was nor will be. Upon 
the whole, therefore, I have more respect for Reynolds, than 
I have for Richer; for, happen how it will, there have been 

15 more people in the world who could dance on a rope like the 
one than who could paint like Sir Joshua. The latter was 
but a bungler in his profession to the other, it is true; but 
then he had a harder task-master to obey, whose will was 
more wayward and obscure, and whose instructions it was 

20 more difficult to practise. You can put a child apprentice 
to a tumbler or rope-dancer with a comfortable prospect of 
success, if they are but sound of wind and limb; but you can- 
not do the same thing in painting. The odds are a million 
to one. You may make indeed as many H s and H s 

25 as you put into that sort of machine, but not one Reynolds 
amongst them all, with his grace, his grandeur, his bland- 
ness of gusto, "in tones and gestures hit," unless you could 
make the man over again. To snatch this grace beyond the 
reach of art is then the height of art — where fine art begins, 

30 and where mechanical skill ends. The soft suffusion of 
the soul, the speechless breathing eloquence, the looks "com- 
mercing with the skies, " the ever-shifting forms of an eternal 
principle, that which is seen but for a moment, but dwells 
in the heart always, and is only seized as it passes by strong 

35 and secret sympathy, must be taught by nature and genius, 
not by rules or study. It is suggested by feeling, not by 

1 If two persons play against each other at any game, one of them 
necessarily fails. 



THE INDIAN JUGGLERS 77 

laborious microscopic inspection; in seeking for it without, 
we lose the harmonious clue to it within; and in aiming to 
grasp the substance, we let the very spirit of art evaporate. 
In a word, the objects of fine art are not the objects of sight 
but as these last are the objects of taste and imagination, 5 
that is, as they appeal to the sense of beauty, of pleasure, and 
of power in the human breast, and are explained by that 
finer sense and revealed in their inner structure to the eye in 
return. Nature is also a language. Objects, like words, 
have a meaning; and the true artist is the interpreter of this 10 
language, which he can only do by knowing its application 
to a thousand other objects in a thousand other situations. 
Thus the eye is too blind a guide of itseK to distinguish be- 
tween the warm or cold tone of a deep blue sky, but another 
sense acts as a monitor to it and does not err. The colour of 15 
the leaves in autumn would be nothing without the feeling 
that accompanies it; but it is that feeling that stamps them 
on the canvas, faded, seared, blighted, shrinking from the 
winter's flaw, and makes the sight as true as touch — 

"And visions, as poetic eyes avow, 20 

Cling to each leaf and hang on every bough." 

The more ethereal, evanescent, more refined and sublime 
part of art is the seeing nature through the medium of senti- 
ment and passion, as each object is a symbol of the affections 
and a link in the chain of our endless being. But the unravel- 25 
ling this mysterious web of thought and feeling is alone in 
the Muse's gift, namely, in the power of that trembling sen- 
sibility which is awake to every change and every modifi- 
cation of its ever-varying impressions, that 

"Thrills in each nerve, and lives along the line." 30 

This power is indifferently called genius, imagination, 
feeling, taste; but the manner in which it acts upon the mind 
can neither be defined by abstract rules, as is the case in 
science, nor verified by continual unvarying experiments, as 
is the case in mechanical performances. The mechanical 35 
excellence of the Dutch painters in colouring and handling 
is that which comes the nearest in fine art to the perfection 



78 PHILOSOPHY AND REFLECTION 

of certain manual exhibitions of skill. The truth of the effect 
and the facility with which it is produced are equally admir- 
able. Up to a certain point, everything is faultless. The 
hand and eye have done their part. There is only a want of 

5 taste and genius. It is after we enter upon that enchanted 
ground that the human mind begins to droop and flag as in 
a strange road, or in a thick mist, benighted and making httle 
way with many attempts and many failures, and that the 
best of us only escape with half a triumph. The undefined 

10 and the imaginary are the regions that we must pass like 
Satan, difficult and doubtful, "half flying, half on foot." 
The object in sense is a positive thing, and execution comes 
with practice. 

Cleverness is a certain knack or aptitude at doing certain 

15 things which depend more on a particular adroitness and off- 
hand readiness than on force or perseverance, such as making 
puns, making epigrams, making extempore verses, mimicking 
the company, mimicking a style, etc. Cleverness is either 
liveliness and smartness, or something answering to sleight 

20 of hand, like letting a glass fall sideways off a table, or else 
a trick, like knowing the secret spring of a watch. Ac- 
complishments are certain external graces, which are to be 
learnt from others and which are easily displayed to the 
admiration of the beholder, viz. dancing, riding, fencing, music, 

25 and so on. These ornamental acquirements are only proper 
to those who are at ease in mind and fortune. I know an 
individual who if he had been born to an estate of five thous- 
and a year, would have been the most accomplished gentle- 
man of the age. He would have been the delight and envy 

30 of the circle in which he moved — would have graced by his 
manners the liberality flowing from the openness of his heart, 
would have laughed with the women, have argued with the 
men, have said good things and written agreeable ones, have 
taken a hand at piquet or the lead at the harpsichord, and 

35 have set and sung his own verses — nugce canorce — with 
tenderness and spirit; a Rochester without the vice, a modem 
Surrey! As it is, all these capabilities of excellence stand in 
his way. He is too versatile for a professional man, not dull 



THE INDIAN JUGGLERS 79 

enough for a political drudge, too gay to be happy, too 
thoughtless to be rich. He wants the enthusiasm of the poet, 
the severity of the prose writer, and the application of the 
man of business. — Talent is the capacity of doing anything 
that depends on application and industry, such as writing a 5 
criticism, making a speech, studying the law. Talent differs 
from genius, as voluntary differs from involuntary power. 
Ingenuity is genius in trifles, greatness is genius in undertak- 
ings of much pith and moment. A clever or ingenious man 
is one who can do anything well, whether it is worth doing or 10 
not : a great man is one who can do that which when done is 
of the highest importance. Themistocles said he could not 
play on the flute, but that he could make of a small city a 
great one. This gives one a pretty good idea of the distinc- 
tion in question. 15 

Greatness is great power, producing great effects. It is 
not enough that a man has great power in himself, he must 
show it to all the world in a way that cannot be hid or gain- 
said. He must fill up a certain idea in the public mind. I 
have no other notion of greatness than this two-fold definition, 20 
great results springing from great inherent energy. The great 
in visible objects has relation to that which extends over 
space: the great in mental ones has to do with space and time. 
No man is truly great who is great only in his lifetime. The 
test of greatness is the page of history. Nothing can be said 25 
to be great that has a distinct limit, or that borders on some- 
thing evidently greater than itself. Besides, what is short- 
lived and pampered into mere notoriety is of a gross and 
vulgar quality in itself. A Lord Mayor is hardly a great man. 
A city orator or patriot of the day only show, by reaching 30 
the height of their wishes, the distance they are at from any 
true ambition. Popularity is neither fame nor greatness. 
A king (as such) is not a great man. He has great power, but 
it is not his own. He merely wields the lever of the state, 
which a child, an idiot, or a madman can do. It is the office, 35 
not the man, we gaze at. Anyone else in the same situation 
would be just as much an object of abject curiosity. We 
laugh at the country girl who having seen a king, expressed 



80 PHILOSOPHY AND REFLECTION 

her disappointment by saying, "Why, he is only a man!" 
Yet, knowing this, we run to see a king as if he was something 
more than a man. — To display the greatest powers, unless 
they are apphed to great purposes, makes nothing for the 

5 character of greatness. To throw a barley-corn through the 
eye of a needle, to multiply nine figures by nine in the memory, 
argues infinite dexterity of body and capacity of mind, but 
nothing comes of either. There is a surprising power at work, 
but the effects are not proportionate, or such as take hold of 

10 the imagination. To impress the idea of power on others, 
they must be made in some way to feel it. It must be com- 
municated to their understandings in the shape of an increase 
of knowledge, or it must subdue and overawe them by sub- 
jecting their wills. Admiration, to be solid and lasting, must 

15 be founded on proofs from which we have no means of escap- 
ing; it is neither a shght nor a voluntary gift. A mathe- 
matician who solves a profound problem, a poet who creates 
an image of beauty in the mind that was not there before, im- 
parts knowledge and power to others, in which his greatness 

20 and his fame consists and on which it reposes. Jedediah 
Buxton will be forgotten; but Napier's bones will live. 
Lawgivers, philosophers, founders of religion, conquerors and 
heroes, inventors, and great geniuses in arts and sciences, are 
great men; for they are great public benefactors, or formi- 

25 dable scourges to manlcind. Among ourselves, Shakespeare, 
Newton, Bacon, Milton, Cromwell, were great men; for 
they showed great power by acts and thoughts which have 
not yet been consigned to oblivion. They must needs be 
men of lofty stature, whose shadows lengthen out to remote 

30 posterity. A great farce-writer may be a great man; for 
Moliere was but a great farce-writer. In my mind, the 
author of Don Quixote was a great man. So have there been 
many others. A great chess-player is not a great man, for he 
leaves the world as he found it. No act terminating in itself 

35 constitutes greatness. This will apply to all displays of 
power or trials of skill which are confined to the momentary, 
individual effort, and construct no permanent image or trophy 
of themselves without them. Is not an actor then a great 



THE INDIAN JUGGLERS 81 

man, because "he dies and leaves the world no copy"? I 
must make an exception for Mrs. Siddons, or else give up my 
definition of greatness for her sake. A man at the top of 
his profession is not therefore a great man. He is great in 
his way, but that is all, unless he shews the marks of a great 5 
moving intellect, so that we trace the master-mind, and can 
sympathise with the springs that urge him on. The rest is 
but a craft or mystery. John Hunter was a great man — 
that anyone might see without the smallest skill in surgery. 
His style and manner showed the man. He would set about 10 
cutting up the carcass of a whale with the same greatness of 
gusto that Michael Angelo would have hewn a block of marble. 
Lord Nelson was a great naval commander; but for myself, 
I have not much opinion of a sea-faring life. Sir Humphry 
Davy is a great chemist, but I am not sure that he is a great 15 
man. I am not a bit the wiser for any of his discoveries, nor 
I never met with anyone that was. But it is in the nature 
of greatness to propagate an idea of itself, as wave impels 
wave, circle without circle. It is a contradiction in terms for 
a coxcomb to be a great man. A really great man has al-20 
ways an idea of something greater than himself. I have 
observed that certain sectaries and polemical writers have no 
higher compliments to pay their most shining lights than to 
say that "Such a one was a considerable man in his day." 
Some new elucidation of a text sets aside the authority of the 25 
old interpretation, and a "great scholar's memory outlives 
him half a century," at the utmost. A rich man is not a 
great man, except to his dependants and his steward. A 
lord is a great man in the idea we have of his ancestry, and 
probably of himself, if we know nothing of him but his title. 30 
I have heard a story of two bishops, one of whom said (speak- 
ing of St. Peter's at Rome) that when he first entered it he 
was rather awe-struck, but that as he walked up it, his mind 
seemed to swell and dilate with it and at last to fill the whole 
building — the other said that as he saw more of it, he ap- 35 
peared to himself to grow less a,nd less every step he took, 
and in the end to dwindle into nothing. This was in some 
respects a striking picture of a great and httle mind — for 



82 PHILOSOPHY AND REFLECTION 

greatness sympathises with greatness, and Uttleness shrinks 
into itself . The one might have become a Wolsey ; the other 
was only fit to become a Mendicant Friar — or there might 
have been court-reasons for making him a bishop. The 

5 French have to me a character of littleness in all about them; 
but they have produced three great men that belong to every 
country, Moliere, Rabelais, and Montaigne. 

To return from this digression and conclude the Essay. 
A singular instance of manual dexterity was shewn in the 

10 person of the late John Cavanagh, whom I have several times 
seen. His death was celebrated at the time in an article in 
the Examiner newspaper (Feb. 7, 1819), written apparently 
between jest and earnest; but as it is pat to our purpose, and 
falls in with my own way of considering such subjects, I shall 

15 here take leave to quote it. 

"Died at his house in Burbage-street, St. Giles's, John 
Cavanagh, the famous hand fives-player. When a person 
dies, who does any one thing better than anyone else in the 
world, which so many others are trying to do well, it leaves a 

20 gap in society. It is not likely that anyone will now see the 
game of fives played in its perfection for many years to come 
— for Cavanagh is dead and has not left his peer behind him. 
It may be said that there are things of more importance than 
striking a ball against a wall — there are things indeed which 

25 make more noise and do as little good, such as making war and 
peace, making speeches and answering them, making verses 
and blotting them; making money and throwing it away. 
But the game of fives is what no one despises who has ever 
played at it. It is the finest exercise for the body and the best 

30 relaxation for the mind. The Roman poet said that 'Care 
mounted behind the horseman and stuck to his skirts.' 
But this remark would not have applied to the fives-player. 
He who takes to playing at fives is twice young. He feels 
neither the past nor future 'in the instant.' Debts, taxes, 

35 ' domestic treason, foreign levy, nothing can touch him fur- 
ther.' He has no other wish, no other thought, from the 
moment the game begins, but that of striking the ball, of 
placing it, of makiyig it! This Cavanagh was sure to do. 



THE INDIAN JUGGLERS 83 

Whenever he touched the ball, there was an end of the chase. 
His eye was certain, his hand fatal, his presence of mind com- 
plete. He could do what he pleased, and he always knew 
exactly what to do. He saw the whole game, and played 
it; took instant advantage of his adversary's weakness, and 5 
recovered balls, as if by a miracle and from sudden thought, 
that everyone gave for lost. He had equal power and skill, 
quickness, and judgment. He could either out-wit his an- 
tagonist by finesse, or beat him by main strength. Some- 
times, when he seemed preparing to send the ball with the 10 
full swing of his arm, he would by a slight turn of his wrist 
drop it withm an inch of the hne. In general, the ball came 
from his hand, as if from a racket, in a straight horizontal 
line; so that it was in vain to attempt to overtake or stop it. 
As it was said of a great orator that he never was at a loss for 15 
a word, and for the properest word, so Cavanagh always could 
tell the degree of force necessary to be given to a ball, and the 
precise direction in which it should be sent. He did his work 
with the greatest ease; never took more pains than was 
necessary; and while others were fagging themselves to 20 
death, was as cool and collected as if he had just entered the 
court. His style of play was as remarkable as his power of 
execution. He had no affectation, no trifling. He did not 
throw away the game to show off an attitude or trj^ an ex- 
periment. He was a fine, sensible, manly player, who did 25 
what he could, but that was more than anyone else could 
even affect to do. His blows were not undecided and in- 
effectual — lumbering like Mr. Wordsworth's epic poetry, 
nor wavering like Mr. Coleridge's lyric prose, nor short of the 
mark like Mr. Brougham's speeches, nor wide of it like Mr. 30 
Canning's wit, nor foul like the Quarterly, not let balls like 
the Edinburgh Review. Cobbett and Junius together would 
have made a Cavanagh. He was the best up-hill player in 
the world; even when his adversary was fourteen, he would 
play on the same or better, and as he never flung away the 35 
game through carelessness and conceit, he never gave it up 
through laziness or want of heart. The .only peculiarity of 
his play was that he never volleyed, but let the balls hop; but 



84 PHILOSOPHY AND REFLECTION 

if they rose an inch from the ground, he never missed having 
them. There was not only nobody equal, but nobody second 
to him. It is supposed that he could give any other player 
half the game, or beat him with his left hand. His service 

5 was tremendous. He once played Woodward and Meredith 
together (two of the best players in England) in the Fives- 
court, St. Martin's-street, and made seven and twenty aces 
following by services alone — a thing unheard of. He an- 
other time played Peru, who was considered a first-rate fives- 

10 player, a match of the best out of five games, and in the three 
first games, which of course decided the match, Peru got only 
one ace. Cavanagh was an Irishman by birth and a house- 
painter by profession. He had once laid aside his working- 
dress and walked up, in his smartest clothes, to the Rosemary 

15 Branch to have an afternoon's pleasure. A person accosted 
him and asked him if he would have a game. So they agreed 
to play for half-a-crown a game, and a bottle of cider. The 
first game began — it was seven, eight, ten, thirteen, four- 
teen, all. Cavanagh won it. The next was the same. 

20 They played on, and each game was hardly contested. 
'There,' said the unconscious fives-player, there was a 
stroke that Cavanagh could not take; I never played better 
in my life, and yet I can't win a game. I don't know how it 
is.' However, they played on, Cavanagh winning every 

25 game, and the by-standers drinking the cider and laughing 
all the time. In the twelfth game, when Cavanagh was only 
four, and the stranger thirteen, a person came in and said, 
'What! are you here, Cavanagh?' The words were no 
sooner pronounced than the astonished player let the ball drop 

30 from his hand, and saying, 'What! have I been breaking my 
heart all this tune to beat Cavanagh?' refused to make an- 
other effort. 'And yet, I give you my word, ' said Cavanagh, 
telling the story with some triumph, ' I played all the while 
with my clenched fist. ' — He used frequently to play matches 

35 at Copenhagen-house for wagers and dinners. The wall 
against which they play is the same that supports the kitchen- 
chinmey, and when the wall resounded louder than usual, 
the cooks exclaimed, 'Those are the Irishman's balls/ and 



THE INDIAN JUGGLERS 85 

the joints trembled on the spit! — Goldsmith consoled him- 
self that there were places where he too was admired; and 
Cavanagh was the admiration of all the fives-com-ts where he 
ever played. Mr. Powell, when he played matches in the 
Court in St. Martin's-street, used to fill his gallery at half a 5 
crown a head with amateurs and admirers of talent in what- 
ever department it is shown. He could not have shown him- 
self in any ground in England but he would have been im- 
mediately surrounded with inquisitive gazers, trying to find 
out in what part of his frame his unrivalled skill lay, as 10 
politicians wonder to see the balance of Europe suspended in 
Lord Castlereagh's face, and admire the trophies of the 
British Navy lurking under Mr. Croker's hanging brow. 
Now Cavanagh was as good-looking a man as the Noble 
Lord, and much better looking than the Right Hon. Secretary. 15 
He had a clear, open countenance, and did not look sideways 
or down, lilve Mr. Murray, the bookseller. He was a young 
fellow of sense, humour, and courage. He once had a quarrel 
with a waterman at Hungerford-stairs, and, they say, served 
him out in great style. In a word, there are hundreds at this 20 
day who caimot mention his name without admiration as the 
best fives-player that perhaps ever lived (the greatest ex- 
cellence of which they have any notion) — and the noisy 
shout of the ring happily stood him in stead of the unheard 
voice of posterity! — The only person who seems to have 25 
excelled as much in another way as Cavanagh did in his, was 
the late John Davies, the racket-player. It was remarked 
of him that he did not seem to follow the ball, but the ball 
seemed to follow him. Give him a foot of wall, and he was 
sure -to make the ball. The four best racket-players of that 30 
day were Jack Spines, Jem. Harding, Armitage, and Church. 
Davies could give any one of these two hands a time, that is, 
half the game, and each of these, at their best, could give the 
best player now in London the same odds. Such are the 
gradations in all exertions of human skill and art. He once 35 
played four capital players together, and beat them. He was 
also a first-rate tennis-player, and an excellent fives-player. 
In the Fleet or King's Bench, he would have stood against 



86 PHILOSOPHY AND REFLECTION 

Lowell, who was reckoned the best open-ground player of his 
time. This last-mentioned player is at present the keeper of 
the Fives-com-t, and we might recommend to him for a motto 
over his door — 'Who enters here, forgets himself, his 

5 country, and his friends. ' And the best of it is, that by the 
calculation of the odds, none of the three are worth remem- 
bering! — Cavanagh died from the bursting of a blood-vessel, 
which prevented him from playing for the last two or three 
years. This, he was often heard to say, he thought hard 

10 upon hitn. He was fast recovering, however, when he was 
suddenly carried off, to the regret of all who knew him. As 
Mr. Peel made it a qualification of the present Speaker, Mr. 
Manners Sutton, that he was an excellent moral character, 
so Jack Cavanagh was a zealous Catholic, and could not be 

15 persuaded to eat meat on a Friday, the day on which he died. 
We have paid this willing tribute to his memory. 

'Let no rude hand deface it, 
And his forlorn ''Hie jacet."' " 



ON GOING A JOURNEY 

One of the pleasantest things in the world is going a jour- 
ney; but I like to go by myself. I can enjoy society in a 
room; but out of doors, nature is company enough for me. 
I am then never less alone than when alone. 

"The fields his study, nature was his book." 5 

I cannot see the wit of walking and talking at the same time. 
When I am in the country, I wish to vegetate like the country, 
I am not for criticising hedge-rows and black cattle. I go out 
of town in order to forget the town and all that is in it. There 
are those who for this purpose go to watering-places and 10 
carry the metropolis with them. I like more elbow-room and 
fewer incumbrances. I like solitude, when I give myself up 
to it, for the sake of solitude; nor do I ask for 

" a friend in my retreat, 

Whom I may whisper, solitude is sweet." 15 

The soul of a journey is liberty, perfect liberty, to think, feel, 
do, just as one pleases. We go a journey chiefly to be free 
of all impediments and of all inconveniences; to leave our- 
selves behind, much more to get rid of others. It is because 
I want a little breatliing-space to muse on indifferent matters, 20 
where Contemplation 

"May plume her feathers and let grow her wings, 
That in the various bustle of resort 
Were all too ruffled, and sometimes impair'd, " 

that I absent myself from the town for awhile, without feeling 25 
at a loss the moment I am left by myself. Instead of a friend 
in a pcst-chaise or in a Tilbury, to exchange good things with 
and vary the same stale topics over again, for once let me have 
a truce with impertinence. Give me the clear blue sky over 
my head, and the green turf beneath my feet, a winding road 30 
before me, and a three hours' march to dinner — and then to 
thinking! It is hard if I cannot start some game on these 

87 



88 PHILOSOPHY AND REFLECTION 

lone heaths. I laugh, I run, I leap, I sing for joy. From the 
point of yonder rolling cloud, I plunge into my past being 
and revel there, as the sun-burnt Indian plunges headlong 
into the wave that wafts him to his native shore. Then 
5 long-forgotten things, like "sunken wrack and sumless 
treasuries," burst upon my eager sight, and I begin to feel, 
think, and be myself again. Instead of an awkward silence, 
broken by attempts at wit or dull common-places, mine is 
that undisturbed silence of the heart which alone is perfect 

10 eloquence. No one likes puns, alliterations, antitheses, ar- 
gument, and analysis better than I do; but I sometimes had 
rather be without them. "Leave, oh, leave me to my re- 
pose!" I have just now other business in hand, which would 
seem idle to you, but is with me "very stuff of the conscience. " 

15 Is not this wild rose sweet without a comment? Does not 
this daisy leap to my heart set in its coat of emerald? Yet if 
I were to explain to you the circumstance that has so endeared 
it to me, you would only smile. Had I not better then keep 
it to myself, and let it serve me to brood over, from here to 

20 yonder craggy point, and from thence onward to the far- 
distant horizon? I should be but bad company all that way, 
and therefore prefer being alone. I have heard it said that 
you may, when the moody fit comes on, walk or ride on by 
yourself and indulge your reveries. But this looks like a 

25 breach of manners, a neglect of others, and you are think- 
ing all the time that you ought to rejoin your party. "Out 
upon such half-faced fellowship," say I. I like to be either 
entirely to myself, or entirely at the disposal of others; 
to talk or be silent, to walk or sit still, to be sociable or soli- 

30 tary. I was pleased with an observation of Mr. Cobbett's, 
that "he thought it a bad French custom to drink our wine 
with our meals, and that an Englishman ought to do only 
one thing at a time. " So I cannot talk and think, or indulge 
in melancholy musing and lively conversation by fits and 

35 starts. " Let me have a companion of my way, " says Sterne, 
"were it but to remark how the shadows lengthen as the sun 
declines." It is beautifully said; but in my opinion, this 
continual comparing of notes interferes with the involuntary 



ON GOING A JOURNEY 89 

impression of things upon the mind and hurts the senti- 
ment. If you only hmt what you feel in a kind of dumb 
show, it is insipid ; if you have to explain it, it is making a toil 
of a pleasure. You cannot read the book of nature without 
being perpetually put to the trouble of translating it for the 5 
benefit of others. I am for the synthetical method on a 
journey, in preference to the analytical. I am content to lay 
in a stock of ideas then, and to examine and anatomise them 
afterwards. I want to see my vague notions float like the 
down of the thistle before the breeze, and not to have them 10 
entangled in the briars and thorns of controversy. For once, 
I like to have it all my own way; and this is impossible unless 
you are alone, or in such company as I do not covet. I have 
no objection to argue a point with any one for twenty miles of 
measured road, but not for pleasure. If you remark the 15 
scent of a bean-field crossing the road, perhaps your fellow- 
traveller has no smell. If you point to a distant object, 
perhaps he is short-sighted, and has to take out his glass to 
look at it. There is a feeling in the air, a tone in the colour of 
a cloud which hits your fancy, but the effect of which you are 20 
unable to account for. There is then no sympathy, but an 
uneasy craving after it, and a dissatisfaction which pursues 
you on the way, and in the end probably produces ill humour. 
Now I never quarrel with myself, and take all my own con- 
clusions for granted till I find it necessary to defend them 25 
against objections. It is not merely that j^ou may not be of 
accord on the objects and circumstances that present them- 
selves before you — these may recall a number of objects and 
lead to associations too delicate and refined to be possibly 
conamunicated to others. Yet these I love to cherish, and 30 
sometimes still fondly clutch them, when I can escape from 
the throng to do so. To give way to our feelings before 
company, seems extravagance or affectation; and, on the 
other hand, to have to unravel this mystery of our being at 
every turn, and to make others take an equal interest in it 35 
(otherwise the end is not answered) is a task to which few are 
competent. We must ''give it an understanding, but no 
tongue. " My old friend C — — , however, could do both. 



90 PHILOSOPHY AND REFLECTION 

He could go on in the most delightful explanatory way over 
hill and dale, a summer's day, and convert a landscape into a 
didactic poem or a Pindaric ode. "He talked far above sing- 
ing." If I could so clothe my ideas in sounding and flow- 
5 ing words, I might perhaps wish to have someone with me to 
admire the swelling theme; or I could be more content, were 
it possible for me still to hear his echoing voice in the woods of 
All-Foxden. They had ''that fine madness in them which 
our first poets had; " and if they could have been caught by 
10 some rare instrument, would have breathed such strains as 
the following. 

" Here be woods as green 

As any, air likewise as fresh and sweet 
As when smooth Zephyrus plays on the fleet 
15 Face of the curled streams, with flow'rs as many 

As the young spring gives, and as choice as any; 
Here be all new delights, cool streams and wells, 
Arbours o'ergrown with woodbines, caves and dells; 
Choose where thou wilt, whilst I sit by and sing, 
20 Or gather rushes, to make many a ring 

For thy long fingers; tell thee tales of love; 
How the pale Phoebe, hunting in a grove, 
First saw the boy Endymion, from whose eyes 
She took eternal fire that never dies; 
25 How she convey'd him softly in a sleep, 

His temples bound with poppy, to the steep 
Head of old Latmos, where she stoops each night, 
Gilding the mountain with her brother's light, 
To kiss her sweetest." — Faithful Shepherdess. 

30 Had I words and images at command like these, I would at- 
tempt to wake the thoughts that lie slumbermg on golden 
ridges in the evening clouds; but at the sight of nature my 
fancy, poor as it is, droops and closes up its leaves, like 
flowers at sunset. I can make notliing out on the spot: — I 

35 must have time to collect myself. 

In general, a good thing spoils out-of-door prospects; it 

should be reserved for table-talk. L is for this reason, 

I take it, the worst company in the world out of doors; be- 
cause he is the best within. I grant, there is one subject on 

40 which it is pleasant to talk on a journey; and that is, what 
one shall have for supper when we get to our inn at night. 



ON GOING A JOURNEY 91 

The open air improves tliis sort of conversation or friendly 
altercation by setting a keener edge on appetite. Every mile 
of the road heightens the flavour of the viands we expect at 
the end of it. How fine is it to enter some old town, walled 
and turreted, just at approach of night-fall, or to come to some 5 
straggling village, with the hghts streaming through the 
surrounding gloom; and then after inquiring for the best 
entertainment that the place affords, to "take one's ease at 
one's inn!" These eventful moments in our lives' liistory 
are too precious, too full of solid, heart-felt happiness to be 10 
frittered and dribbled away in imperfect sympathy. I would 
have them all to myself, and drain them to the last drop; 
they will do to talk of or to write about afterwards. What 
a delicate speculation it is, after drinking whole goblets of tea, 

"The cups that cheer, but not inebriate," 15 

and letting the fumes ascend into the brain, to sit considering 
what we shall have for supJDer — eggs and a rasher, a rabbit 
smothered in onions, or an excellent veal-cutlet! Sancho in 
such a situation once fixed on cow-heel; and his choice, 
though he could not help it, is not to be disparaged. Then, 20 
in the intervals of pictured scenery and Shandean contem- 
plation, to catch the preparation and the stir in the kitchen — 
Procul, procul este profani! These hours are sacred to 
silence and to musing, to be treasured up in the memory, and 
to feed the source of smiling thoughts hereafter. I would not 25 
waste them m idle tallv; or if I must have the integrity of 
fancy broken in upon, I would rather it were by a stranger 
than a friend. A stranger takes his hue and character from 
the tune and place; he is a part of the furniture and costume 
of an inn. If he is a Quaker, or from the West Riding of 30 
Yorkshire, so much the better. I do not even try to sympa- 
thise with him, and he breaks no squares. I associate nothing 
with my travelling companion but present objects and passing 
events. In his ignorance of me and my affairs, I in a manner 
forget myself. But a friend reminds one of other things, 35 
rips up old grievances, and destroys the abstraction of the 
scene. He comes in imgraciously between us and our imagi- 



92 PHILOSOPHY AND REFLECTION 

nary character. Something is dropped in the course of 
conversation that gives a hint of your profession and pur- 
suits; or from having someone with you that knows the less 
sublime portions of your history, it seems that other people do. 
5 You are no longer a citizen of the world: but your "unhoused 
free condition is put into circumspection and confine." The 
incognito of an inn is one of its striking privileges — "Lord 
of one's self, uncumber'd with a name." Oh! it is great to 
shake off the trammels of the world and of public opinion — 

10 to lose our importunate, tormenting, everlasting personal 
identity in the elements of nature, and become the creature 
of the moment, clear of all ties — to hold to the universe 
only by a dish of sweet-breads, and to owe nothing but the 
score of the evening — and no longer seeking for applause and 

15 meeting with contempt, to be known by no other title than 
the Gentleman in the parlour! One may take one's choice of 
all characters in this romantic state of uncertainty as to one's 
real pretensions, and become indefinitely respectable and 
negatively right- worshipful. We baffle prejudice and disap- 

20 point conjecture; and from being so to others, begin to be ob- 
jects of curiosity and wonder even to ourselves. We are no 
more those hackneyed common-places that we appear in the 
world; an inn restores us to the level of nature and quits 
scores with society! I have certainly spent some enviable 

25 hours at inns — sometimes when I have been left entirely to 
myself and have tried to solve some nietaphysical problem, as 
once at Witham-common, where I found out the proof that 
likeness is not a case of the association of ideas — at other 
times, when there have been pictures in the room, as at St. 

SONeot's (I think it was), where I first met with Gribehn's 
engravings of the Cartoons, into which I entered at once, 
and at a little inn on the borders of Wales, where there hap- 
pened to be hanging some of Westall's drawings, which I 
compared triumphantly (for a theory that I had, not for the 

35 admired artist) with the figure of a girl who had ferried me 
over the Severn, standing up in a boat between me and the 
twilight — at other times I might mention luxuriating in 
books, with a peculiar interest in this way, as I remember 



ON GOING A JOURNEY 93 

sitting up half the night to read Paul and Virginia, which I 
picked up at an inn at Bridgewater, after being drenched in 
the rain all day; and at the same place I got through two 
volumes of Madame D'Arblay's Camilla. It was on the 
10th of April, 1798, that I sat down to a volume of the New 5 
Eloise, at the inn at Llangollen, over a bottle of sherry and 
a cold chicken. The letter I chose was that in which St. 
Preux describes his feelings as he first caught a glimpse from 
the heights of the Jura of the Pays de Vaud, which I had 
brought with me as a bo7i bouche to crown the evening with, lo 
It was my birthday, and I had for the first time come from a 
place in the neighborhood to visit this delightful spot. The 
road to Llangollen turns off between Chirk and Wrexham; 
and on passing a certain point, you come all at once upon the 
valley, which opens like an amphitheatre, broad, barren hills 15 
rising in majestic state on either side, with "green upland 
swells that echo to the bleat of flocks" below, and the river 
Dee babbling over its stony bed in the midst of them. The 
valley at this time ''glittered green with sunny showers," 
and a budding ash-tree dipped its tender branches in the 20 
chiding stream. How proud, how glad I was to walk along 
the high road that overlooks the delicious prospect, repeating 
the lines which I have just quoted from Mr. Coleridge's 
poems! But besides the prospect which opened beneath my 
feet, another also opened to my inward sight, a heavenly 25 
vision, on which were written, in letters large as Hope could 
make them, these four words. Liberty, Genius, Love, 
Virtue ; which have since faded into the light of common day, 
or mock my idle gaze. 

" The beautiful is vanished, and returns not." 30 

Still I would return some time or other to this enchanted spot; 
but I would return to it alone. What other self could I find to 
share that influx of thoughts, of regret and delight, the frag- 
ments of which I could hardly conjure up to myself, so much 
have they been broken and defaced! I could stand on some 35 
tall rock and overlook the precipice of years that separates 
me from what I then was. I was at that time going shortly 



94 PHILOSOPHY AND REFLECTION 

to visit the poet whom I have above named. , Where is he 
now? Not only I myself have changed; the world, which 
was then new to me, has become old and incorrigible. Yet 
will I turn to thee in thought, sylvan Dee, in joy, in youth 
Sand gladness as thou then wert; and thou shalt always be to 
me the river of Paradise, where I will drink of the waters of 
life freely! 

There is hardly anything that shows the short-sightedness 
or capriciousness of the imagination more than travelling does. 

10 With change of place we change our ideas; nay, our opinions 
and feelings. We can by an effort indeed transport ourselves 
to old and long-forgotten scenes, and then the picture of the 
mind revives again; but we forget those that we have just 
left. It seems that we can think but of one place at a time. 

15 The canvas of the fancy is but of a certain extent, and if we 
paint one set of objects upon it, they immediately efface every 
other. We cannot enlarge our conceptions, we only shift our 
point of view. The landscape bares its bosom to the enrap- 
tured eye, we take our fill of it and seem as if we could form 

20 no other image of beauty or grandeur. We pass on and 
think no more of it ; the horizon that shuts it from our sight, 
also blots it from our memory like a dream. In travelling 
through a wild, barren country, I can form no idea of a woody 
and cultivated one. It appears to me that all the world must 

25 be barren, like what I see of it. In the country we forget the 
town, and in town we despise the country. "Beyond Hyde 
Park," says Sir Fopling Flutter, ''all is a desert." All that 
part of the map that we do not see before us is a blank. The 
world in our conceit of it is not much bigger than a nutshell. 

30 It is not one prospect expanded into another, county joined 
to county, kingdom to kingdom, land to seas, making an 
image voluminous and vast; — the mind can form no larger 
idea of space than the eye can take in at a single glance. The 
rest is a name written in a map, a calculation of arithmetic. 

35 For instance, what is the true signification of that immense 
mass of territory and population, known by the name of 
China to us? An inch of pasteboard on a wooden globe, of 
no more account than a China orange! Things near us are 



ON GOING A JOURNEY 95 

seen of the size of life: things at a distance are diminished to 
the size of the understanding. We measure the universe by 
ourselves, and even comprehend the texture of our own 
being only piece-meal. In this way, however, we remember 
an infinity of things and places. The mind is like a mechani- 5 
cal instrument that plays a great variety of tunes, but it must 
play them in succession. One idea recalls another, but it at 
the same time excludes all others. In trjdng to renew old 
recollections, we cannot as it were unfold the whole web of 
our existence; we must pick out the single threads. So in 10 
coming to a place where we have formerly lived and with 
which we have intimate associations, everyone must have 
found that the feeling grows more vivid the nearer we ap- 
proach the spot, from the mere anticipation of the actual im- 
pression: we remember circumstances, feelings, persons, faces, 15 
names that we had not thought of for years; but for the time 
all the rest of the world is forgotten! — To return to the 
question I have quitted above. 

I have no objection to go to see ruins, aqueducts, pictures, 
in company with a friend or a party, but rather the contrary, 20 
for the former reason reversed. They are intelligible matters 
and wdll bear talking about. The sentiment here is not tacit, 
but communicable and overt. Salisbury Plain is barren of 
criticism, but Stonehenge will bear a discussion antiquarian, 
picturesque, and philosophical. In setting out on a party of 25 
pleasure, the first consideration always is where we shall go 
to; in taking a solitary ramble, the question is what we shall 
meet with by the way. "The mind is its own place;" nor 
are we anxious to arrive at the end of our journey. I can 
myself do the honours indifferently well to works of art and 30 
curiosity. I once took a party to Oxford with no mean eclat 
— showed them that seat of the Muses at a distance, 

"The glistering spires and pinnacles adorn' d" — 

descanted on the learned air that breathes from the grassy 
quadrangles and stone walls of halls and colleges — was at 35 
home in the Bodleian; and at Blenheim quite superseded the 
powdered ciceroni that attended us, and that pointed in vain 



96 PHILOSOPHY AND REFLECTION 

with his wand to common-place beauties in matchless pictures. 
— As another exception to the above reasoning, I should not 
feel confident in venturing on a journey in a foreign country 
without a companion. I should want at intervals to hear 
5 the sound of my own language. There is an involuntary 
antipathy in the mind of an Englishman to foreign manners 
and notions that requires the assistance of social sjonpathy 
to carry it off. As the distance from home increases, this 
relief, which was at first a luxury, becomes a passion and an 

10 appetite. A person would almost feel stifled to find himself 
in the deserts of Arabia without friends and countrymen; 
there must be allowed to be something in the view of Athens 
or old Rome that claims the utterance of speech; and I own 
that the Pyramids are too mighty for any single contem- 

15 plation. In such situations, so opposite to all one's ordinary 
train of ideas, one seems a species by one's-self, a limb torn 
off from society, unless one can meet with instant fellowship 
and support. — Yet I did not feel this want or craving very 
pressing once, when I first set my foot on the laughing shores 

20 of France. Calais was peopled with novelty and delight. 
The confused, busy murmur of the place was like oil and wine 
poured into my ears; nor did the mariners' hymn, which was 
sung from the top of an old crazy vessel in the harbour, as the 
sun went down, send an alien sound into my soul. I only 

25 breathed the air of general humanity. I walked over "the 
vine-covered hills and gay regions of France," erect and 
satisfied; for the image of man was not cast down and chained 
to the foot of arbitrary thrones; I was at no loss for language, 
for that of all the great schools of painting was open to me. 

30 The whole is vanished like a shade. Pictures, heroes, glory, 
freedom, all are fied : nothing remains but the Bourbons and 
the French people! — There is undoubtedly a sensation in 
travelling into foreign parts that is to be had nowhere else; 
but it is more pleasing at the time than lasting. It is too 

35 remote from our habitual associations to be a common topic 
of discourse or reference, and, like a dream or another state of 
existence, does not piece into our daily modes of life. It is an 
animated but a momentary hallucination. It demands an 



ON GOING A JOURNEY 97 

effort to exchange our actual for our ideal identity; and to 
feel the pulse of our old transports revive very keenly, we 
must "jump" all our present comforts and connexions. Our 
romantic and itinerant character is not to be domesticated. 
Dr. Johnson remarked how little foreign travel added to the 5 
facilities of conversation in those who had been abroad. In 
fact, the time we have spent there is both delightful and in 
one sense instructive; but it appears to be cut out of our 
substantial, downright existence, and never to join kindly on 
to it. We are not the same, but another, and perhaps more 10 
enviable individual, all the time we are out of our own country. 
We are lost to ourselves, as well as our friends. So the poet 
somewhat quaintly sings, 

"Out of my country and myself I go." 

Those who wish to forget painful thoughts, do well to absent 15 
themselves for a while from the ties and objects that recall 
them; but we can be said only to fulfil our destiny in the 
place that gave us birth. I should on this account like well 
enough to spend the whole of my life in travelling abroad, 
if I could anywhere borrow another life to spend afterwards 20 
at home! 



WHY DISTANT OBJECTS PLEASE 

Distant objects please, because, in the first place, they 
imply an idea of space and magnitude, and because, not being 
obtruded too close upon the eye, we clothe them with the 
indistinct and airy colours of fancy. In looking at the misty 
5 mountain-tops that bound the horizon, the mind is as it were 
conscious of all the conceivable objects and interests that lie 
between; we imagine all sorts of adventures in the interim; 
strain our hopes and wishes to reach the air-drawn circle, 
or to ''descry new lands, rivers, and mountains," stretching 

10 far beyond it, our feelings carried out of themselves lose their 
grossness and their husk, are rarefied, expanded, melt into 
softness and brighten into beauty, turning to ethereal mould, 
sky-tinctured. We drink the air before us, and borrow a more 
refined existence from objects that hover on the brink of 

15 nothing. Where the landscape fades from the dull sight, 
we fill the thin, viewless space with shapes of unknown good, 
and tinge the hazy prospect with hopes and wishes and more 
charming fears. 

"But thou, oh Hope! with eyes so fair, 
20 What was thy deHghted measure? 

Still it whisper'd promised pleasure^ 

And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail!" 

Whatever is placed beyond the reach of sense and knowledge, 
whatever is imperfectly discerned, the fancy pieces out at its 

25 leisure; and all but the present moment, but the present spot, 
passion claims for its own, and brooding over it with wings 
outspread, stamps it with an image of itself. Passion is lord 
of infinite space, and distant objects please because they 
border on its confines, and are moulded by its touch. When 

30 1 was a boy, I lived within sight of a range of lofty hills, whose 
blue tops blending with the setting sun had often tempted 
my longing eyes and wandering feet. At last I put my proj- 
ect in execution, and on a nearer approach, instead of glimmer- 



WHY DISTANT OBJECTS PLEASE 99 

ing air woven into fantastic shapes, found them huge, lumpish 
heaps of discoloured earth. I learnt from this (in part) to leave 
"Yarrow unvisited, " and not idly to disturb a dream of good! 
Distance of time has much the same effect as distance of 
place. It is not surprising that fancy colours the prospect of 5 
the future as it thinks good, when it even effaces the forms of 
memory. Time takes out the sting of pain; our sorrows 
after a certain period have been so often steeped in a medium 
of thought and passion, that they "unmould their essence"; 
and all that remains of our original impressions is what we 10 
would wish them to have been. Not only the untried steep 
ascent before us, but the rude, unsightly masses of our past 
experience presently resume their power of deception over 
the eye: the golden cloud soon rests upon their heads, and 
the purple hght of fancy clothes their barren sides! Thus we 15 
pass on, while both ends of our existence touch upon Heaven! 
— There is (so to speak) "a mighty stream of tendency" to 
good in the human mind, upon wMch all objects float and are 
imperceptibly borne along; and though in the voyage of life 
we meet with strong rebuffs, with rocks and quicksands, 20 
yet there is "a tide in the affairs of men," a heaving and a 
restless aspiration of the soul, by means of which, "with sails 
and tackle torn," the wreck and scattered fragments of our 
entire being drift into the port and haven of our desires! In 
all that relates to the affections, we put the will for the deed; 25 
so that the instant the pressure of unwelcome circumstances 
is removed, the mind recoils from their hold, recovers its 
elasticity, and re-unites itself to that image of good, which is 
but a reflection and configuration of its own nature. Seen 
in the distance, in the long perspective of wanhig j^ears, the 30 
meanest incidents, enlarged and enriched by countless recol- 
lections, become interesting; the most painful, broken and 
softened by time, soothe. How any object that unexpect- 
edly brings back to us old scenes and associations, startles 
the mind! What a yearning it creates within us; what a 35 
longing to leap the intermediate space! How fondly we cling 
to, and try to revive the impression of all that we then were! 

"Such tricks hath strong imagination!" 



100 PHILOSOPHY AND REFLECTION 

In truth, we impose upon ourselves, and know not what we 
wish. It is a cunning artifice, a quaint delusion, by which, in 
pretending to be what we were at a particular moment of 
time, we would fain be all that we have since been, and have 
5 our lives to come over again. It is not the little, glimmering, 
almost annihilated speck in the distance, that rivets our at- 
tention and ''hangs upon the beatings of our hearts": it 
is the interval that separates us from it, and of which it is the 
trembling boundary, that excites all this coil and mighty pud- 

loder in the breast. Into that great gap in our being ''come 
thronging soft desires" and infinite regrets. It is the con- 
trast, the change from what we then were, that arms the haK- 
extinguished recollection with its giant-strength, and lifts 
the fabric of the affections from its shadowy base. In con- 

15templating its utmost verge, we overlook the map of our 
existence, and re-tread, in apprehension, the journey of life. 
So it is that in early youth we strain our eager sight after the 
pursuits of manhood; and, as we are sliding off the stage, 
strive to gather up the toys and flowers that pleased our 

20 thoughtless childhood. 

When I was quite a boy, my father used to take me to the 
Montpelier Tea-gardens at Walworth. Do I go there now? 
No; the place is deserted, and its borders and its beds o'er- 
turned. Is there, then, nothing that can 

25 "bring back the hour 

Of glory in the grass, of splendour in the flower?" 

Oh! yes. I unlock the casket of memory, and draw back the 
warders of the brain ; and there this scene of my infant wan- 
derings still lives unfaded, or with fresher dyes. A new sense 

30 comes upon me, as in a dream; a richer perfume, brighter 
colours start out; my eyes dazzle; my heart heaves with its 
new load of bliss, and I am a child again. My sensations are 
all glossy, spruce, voluptuous, and fine: they wear a candied 
coat, and are in holiday trim. I see the beds of larkspur with 

35 purple eyes; tall holy-oaks, red and yellow; the broad sun- 
flowers, caked in gold, with bees buzzing round them; wilder- 
nesses of pinks, and hot-glowing peonies; poppies run to seed; 



WHY DISTANT OBJECTS PLEASE 101 

the sugared lily, and faint mignionette, all ranged in order, 
and as thick as they can grow; the box-tree borders; the 
gravel-walks, the painted alcove, the confectionary, the 
clotted cream : — I think I see them now with sparkling 
looks; or have they vanished while I have been writing this 5 
description of them? No matter; they will return again when 
I least think of them. All that I have observed since, of 
flowers and plants, and grass-plots, and of suburb delights, 
seems, to me, borrowed from ''that first garden of my inno- 
cence" — to be slips and scions stolen from that bed of mem- 10 
ory. In this manner the darlings of our childhood burnish 
out in the eye of after-years, and derive their sweetest perfume 
from the first heartfelt sigh of pleasure breathed upon them, 

— — "like the sweet south, 
That breathes upon a bank of violets, 15 

Stealing and giving odour!" 

If I have pleasure in a flower-garden, I have in a kitchen- 
garden too, and for the same reason. If I see a row of cab- 
bage plants or of peas or beans coming up, I immediately 
think of those which I used so carefully to water of an even- 20 
ing at W — m, when my day's tasks were done, and of the 
pain with which I saw them droop and hang down their leaves 
in the morning's sun. Again, I never see a child's kite in the 
air, but it seems to pull at my heart. It is to me a ''thing of 
life." I feel the twinge at my elbow, the flutter and palpi- 25 
tation, with which I used to let go the string of my own, as 
it rose in the air and towered among the clouds. My little 
cargo of hopes and fears ascended with it; and as it made a 
part of my own consciousness then, it does so still, and appears 
"like some gay creature of the element," my playmate when 30 
life was young, and twin-born with my earliest recollections. 
I could enlarge on this subject of childish amusements, but 
Mr. Leigh Hunt has treated it so well, in a paper in the 
Indicator, on the productions of the toy-shops of the metropo- 
lis, that if I were to insist more on it, I should only pass for 35 
an imitator of that ingenious and agreeable writer, and for 
an indifferent one into the bargain. 



102 PHILOSOPHY AND REFLECTION 

Sounds, smells, and sometimes tastes, are remembered 
longer than visible objects, and serve, perhaps, better for 
links in the chain of association. The reason seems to be 
this: they are in their nature intermittent and comparatively 
5 rare; whereas objects of sight are always before us, and, by 
their continuous succession, drive one another out. The 
eye is always open; and between any given impression and its 
recurrence a second time, fifty thousand other impressions 
have, in all likelihood, been stamped upon the sense and on 

10 the brain. The other senses are not so active or vigilant. 
They are but seldom called into play. The ear, for example, 
is oftener courted by silence than noise; and the sounds that 
break that silence sink deeper and more durably into the 
mind. I have a more present and lively recollection of certain 

15 scents, tastes, and sounds, for this reason, than I have of mere 
visible images, because they are more original, and less worn 
by frequent repetition. Where there is nothing interposed 
between any two impressions, whatever the distance of time 
that parts them, they naturally seem to touch; and the re- 

20 newed impression recalls the former one in full force, without 
distraction or competitor. The taste of barberries which 
have hung out in the snow during the severity of a North 
American winter, I have in my mouth still, after an interval 
of thirty years; for I have met with no other taste, in all that 

25 time, at all like it. It remains by itself, almost like the im- 
pression of a sixth sense. But the colour is mixed up indis- 
criminately with the colours of many other berries, nor should 
I be able to distinguish it among them. The smell of a brick- 
kiln carries the evidence of its own identity with it; neither 

30 is it to me (from peculiar associations) unpleasant. The 
colour of brick-dust, on the contrary, is more common, and 
easily confounded with other colours. Raphael did not keep 
it quite distinct from his flesh colour. I will not say that we 
have a more perfect recollection of the human voice than of 

35 that complex picture the human face, but I think the sudden 
hearing of a well-known voice has something in it more affect- 
ing and striking than the sudden meeting with the face; 
perhaps, indeed, this may be because we have a more familiar 



WHY DISTANT OBJECTS PLEASE 103 

remembrance of the one than the other, and the voice takes 
us more by surprise on tiiat account. I am by no means 
certain (generally speaking) that we have the ideas of the 
other senses so accurate and well made out as those of visible 
form: what I chiefly mean is, that the feelings belonging to 5 
the sensations of our other organs, when accidentally re- 
called, are kept more separate and pure. Musical sounds, 
probably, owe a good deal of their interest and romantic 
effect to the principle here spoken of. Were they constant, 
they would become indifferent, as we may find with respect 10 
to disagreeable noises, which we do not hear after a time. I 
know ho situation more pitiable than that of a blind fiddler, 
who has but one sense left (if we except the sense of snuff- 
takingi) and who has that stunned or deafened by his own 
villainous noises. Shakespeare says, 15 

"How silver-sweet sound lovers' tongues by night!" 

It has been observed, in explanation of this passage, that it is 
because in the daytime lovers are occupied with one another's 
faces, but that at night they can only distinguish the sound of 
each other's voices. I know not how this may be: but 1 20 
have, ere now, heard a voice break so upon the silence, 
"To angels 'twas most like," 

and charm the moonlight air with its balmy essence, that the 
budding leaves trembled to its accents. Would I might have 
heard it once more whisper peace and hope (as erst when it 25 
was mingled with the breath of spring), and with its soft 
pulsations lift winged fancy to heaven! But it has ceased, or 
turned where I no more shall hear it! Hence, also, we see 
what is the charm of the shepherd's pastoral reed; and why 
we hear him, as it were, piping to his flock, even in a picture. 30 
Our ears are fancy-stung! I remember once strolling along 
the margin of a stream, skirted with willows and plashy sedges, 
in one of those low, sheltered valleys on Salisbury Plain, where 
the monks of former ages had planted chapels and built 
hermits' cells. There was a little parish church near, but 35 

1 See Wilkie's Blind Fiddler. 



104 PHILOSOPHY AND REFLECTION 

tall elms and quivering alders hid it from my sight, when, all 
of a sudden, I was startled by the sound of the full organ peal- 
ing on the ear, accompanied by rustic voices and the willing 
quire of village maids and children. It rose, indeed, "like 

5 an exhalation of rich distilled perfumes." The dew from a 
thousand pastures was gathered in its softness; the silence of 
a thousand years spoke in it. It came upon the heart like 
the calm beauty of death; fancy caught the sound, and faith 
mounted on it to the skies. It filled the valley like a mist, 

10 and stiU poured out its endless chant, and still it swells upon 
the ear, and wraps me in a golden trance, drowning the noisy 
tumult of the world! 

There is a curious and interesting discussion, on the com- 
parative distinctness of our visual and other external impres- 

ISsions, in Mr. Fearn's Essay on Consciousness, with which I 
shall try to descend from this rhapsody to the ground of 
common sense and plain reasoning again. After observing, 
a little before, that ''nothing is more untrue than that sen- 
sations of vision do necessarily leave more vivid and durable 

20 ideas than those of grosser senses, " he proceeds to give a num- 
ber of ihustrations in support of this position. "Notwith- 
standing," he says, "the advantages here enumerated in 
favour of sight, I think there is no doubt that a man will 
come to forget acquaintance, and many other visible objects 

25 noticed in mature age, before he will in the least forget tastes 
and smells of only moderate interest, encountered either in 
his childhood or at any time since. 

" In the course of voyaging to various distant regions, it has 
several times happened that I have eaten once or twice of 

30 different things that never came in my way before nor since. 
Some of these have been pleasant, and some scarce better than 
insipid; but I have no reason to think I have forgot or much 
altered the ideas left by those single impulses of taste; though 
here the memory of them certainly has not been preserved 

35 by repetition. It is clear I must have seen as well as tasted 
those things; and I am decided that I remember the tastes 
with more precision than I do the visual sensations. 

"I remember having once, and only once, eat kangaroo 



WHY DISTANT OBJECTS PLEASE 105 

in New Holland; and having once smelled a baker's shop, 
having a peculiar odour, in the city of Bassorah. Now both 
these gross ideas remain with me quite as vivid as any visual 
ideas of those places; and this could not be from repetition, 
but really from interest in the sensation. 5 

'^Twenty-eight years ago, in the island of Jamaica, I par- 
took (perhaps twice) of a certain fruit, of the taste of which 
I have now a very fresh idea; and I could add other instances 
of that period. 

"I have had repeated proofs of having lost retention of 10 
visual objects, at various distances of time, though thej^ had 
once been familiar. I have riot, during thirty years, forgot 
the delicate, and in itself most trifling sensation, that the palm 
of my hand Used to convey, when I was a boy, trying the 
different effects of what boys call light and hxavy tops; but 15 
I cannot remember wdthin several shades of the brown coat 
which I left off a week ago. If any man thinks he can do 
better, let him take an ideal survey of his wardrobe, and then 
actually refer to it for proof. 

"After retention of such ideas, it certainly would be very 20 
difficult to persuade me that feeling, taste, and smell can 
scarce be said to leave ideas, unless indistinct and obscure 
ones. . . . 

"Shew a Londoner correct models of twenty London 
churches, and, at the same time, a model of each, which 25 
differs in several considerable features from the truth, and I 
venture to say he shall not tell you, in any instance, which 
is the correct one, except by mere chance. 

"If he is an architect, he may be much more correct than 
any ordinary person; and this obviously is, because he has 30 
felt an interest in viewing these structures, which an ordi- 
nary person does not feel; and here interest is the sole reason 
of his remembering more correctly than his neighbour. 

"I cnce heard a person quaintly ask another. How many 
trees there are in St. Paul's churchyard? The question itself 35 
indicates that many cannot answer it; and this is found to 
be the case with those who have passed the church an hundred 
times; whilst the cause is, that every individual in the busy 



106 PHILOSOPHY AND REFLECTION 

stream which ghdes past St. Paul's is engrossed in various 
other interests. 

"How often does it happen that we enter a well-known 
apartment, or meet a well-known friend, and receive some 
5 vague idea of visible difference, but cannot possibly find out 
what it is; until at length we come to perceive (or perhaps 
must be told) that some ornament or furniture is removed, 
altered, or added in the apartment; or that our friend has 
cut his hair, taken a wig, or has made any of twenty consider- 

10 able alterations in his appearance. At other times, we have 
no perception of alteration whatever, though the like has taken 
place. 

"It is, however, certain, that sight, apposited with interest, 
can retain tolerably exact copies of sensations, especially if 

15 not too complex; such as of the human countenance and 
figure. Yet the voice will convince us, when the counte- 
nance will not; and he is reckoned an excellent painter, and no 
ordinary genius, who can make a tolerable likeness from mem- 
ory. Nay, more, it is a conspicuous proof of the inaccuracy 

20 of visual ideas, that it is an effort to consummate art, attained 
by many years' practice, to take a strict likeness of the human 
countenance, even when the object is. present; and among 
those cases where the wilful cheat of flattery has been avoided, 
we still find in how very few instances the best painters pro- 

25duce a likeness up to the life, though practice and interest 
join in the attempt. 

"I imagine an ordinary person would find it very difficult, 
supposing he had some knowledge of drawing, to afford, from 
memory, a tolerable sketch of such a familiar object as his 

30 curtain, his carpet, or his dressing-gown, if the pattern of 
either be at all various or irregular; yet he will instantly tell, 
with precision, either if his snuff or his wine has not the 
same character it had yesterday, though both these are 
compounds. 

35 "Beyond all this I may observe, that a draper, who is in 
the daily habit of such comparisons, cannot carry in his mind 
the particular shade of a colour during a second of time; 
and has no certainty of tolerably matching two simple colours 



WHY DISTANT OBJECTS PLEASE 107 

except by placing the patterns in contact." — Essay on 
Consciousness, p. 303. 

I will conclude the subject of this Essay with observing, 
that (as it appears to me) a nearer and more familiar acquain- 
tance with persons has a different and more favourable effect 5 
than that with places or things. The latter improve (as an 
almost universal rule) by being removed to a distance; the 
former, generally at least, gain by being brought nearer and 
more home to us. Report or imagination seldom raises any 
individual so high in our estimation as to disappoint us greatly 10 
when we are introduced to him; prejudice and malice con- 
stantly exaggerate defects beyond the reality. Ignorance 
alone makes monsters or bugbears; our actual acquaintances 
are all very common-place people. The thing is, that as a 
matter of hearsay or conjecture, we make abstractions of 15 
particular vices, and irritate ourselves against some particular 
quality or action of the person we dislike; — whereas, indi- 
viduals are concrete existences, not arbitrary denominations 
or nicknames; and have innumerable other qualities, good, 
bad, and indifferent, besides the damning feature with which 20 
we fill up the portrait or caricature, in our previous fancies. 
We can scarcely hate anyone that we know. An acute 
observer complained, that if there was anyone to whom he had 
a particular spite and a wish to let him see it, the moment he 
came to sit down with him his eimaity was disarmed by some 25 
unforeseen circumstance. If it was a Quarterly Reviewer, he 
was in other respects like any other man. Suppose, again, 
your adversary turns out a very ugly man, or wants an eye, 
you are balked in that way; — he is not what you expected, 
the object of your abstract hatred and implacable disgust. 30 
He may be a very disagreeable person, but he is no longer the 
same. If you come into a room where a man is, you find, 
in general, that he has a nose upon his face. "There's 
sympathy!" This alone is a diversion to your imqualified 
contempt. He is stupid and says nothing, but he seems to 35 
have something in him when he laughs. You had conceived 
of him as a rank Whig or Tory — yet he talks upon other 
subjects. You knew that he was a virulent party-writer; 



108 PHILOSOPHY AND REFLECTION 

but you find that the man himself is a tame sort of animal 
enough. He does not bite. That's something. In short, 
you can make nothing of it. Even opposite vices balance one 
another. A man may be pert in company, but he is also dull; 
5 so that you cannot, though you try, hate him cordially, merely 
for the wish to be offensive. He is a knave. Granted. 
You learn, on a nearer acquaintance, what you did not know 
before — that he is a fool as well; so you forgive him. On 
the other hand, he may be a profligate public character, and 

10 may make no secret of it; but he gives you a hearty shake 
by the hand, speaks kindly to servants, and supports an aged 
father and mother. Politics apart, he is a very honest fellow. 
You are told that a person has carbuncles on his face; but 
you have ocular proofs that he is sallow, and pale as a 

15 ghost. This does not much mend the matter; but it blunts 
the edge of the ridicule, and turns your indignation against 

the inventor of the lie; but he is -, the editor of a Scotch 

magazine ; so you are just where you were. I am not very fond 
of anonymous criticism; I want to know who the author can 

20 be: but the moment I learn this, I am satisfied. Even 

would do well to come out of his disguise. It is the mask 
only that we dread and hate: the man may have something 
human about him! The notions, in short, which we enter- 
tain of people at a distance, or from partial representations, 

25 or from guess-work, are simple, uncompounded ideas, which 
answer to nothing in reality: those which we derive from 
experiences are mixed modes, the only true, and, in general, 
the most favourable ones. Instead of naked deformity, or 
abstract perfection — 

30 "Those faultless monsters which the world ne'er saw," — 

''the web of our lives is of a mingled yarn, good and ill to- 
gether; our virtues would be proud, if our faults whipt them 
not; and our vices would despair, if they were not encouraged 
by our virtues." This was truly and finely said long ago by 

35 one who knew the strong and weak points of human nature; 
but it is what sects, and parties, and those philosophers whose 
pride and boast it is to classify by nicknames, have yet to 
learn the meaning of! 



ON THE DISADVANTAGES OF INTEL- 
LECTUAL SUPERIORITY 

The chief disadvantage of knowing more and seeing farther 
than others, is not to be generally understood. A man is, 
in consequence of this, liable to start paradoxes, which im- 
mediately transport him beyond the reach of the common- 
place reader. A person speaking once in a slighting man- 5 
ner of a very original-minded man, received for answer — 
"He strides on so far before you, that he dwindles in the dis- 
tance!" 

Petrarch complains, that "Nature had made him different 
from other people" — singular d'altra genii. The great hap- 10 
piness of life is, to be neither better nor worse than the gen- 
eral run of those you meet v/ith. If you are beneath them, 
you are trampled upon; if you are above them, you soon find 
a mortifying level in their indifference to what you particu- 
larly pique yourself upon. What is the use of being moral in 15 
a night-cellar, or wise in Bedlam? ''To be honest, as this 
world goes, is to be one man picked out of ten thousand." 
So says Shakespear; and the commentators have not added 
that, under these circumstances, a man is more likely to be- 
come the butt of slander than the mark of admiration for 20 
being so. ''How now, thou particular fellow ^ ?" is the com- 
mon answer to all such out-of-the-way pretensions. By not 
doing as those at Rome do, we cut ourselves off from good- 
fellowship and society. We speak another language, have 
notions of our own, and are treated as of a different species. 25 
Nothing can be more awkward than to intrude with any 
such far-fetched ideas among the common herd, who will be 
sure to 

^ Jack Cade's salutation to one who tries to recommend himself 
by saying he can write and read. — See Henry VI. Part Second. 

109 



110 PHILOSOPHY AND REFLECTION 

"Stand all astonied, like a sort of steers, 

'Mongst whom some beast of strange and foreign race 

Unwares is chanced, far straying from his peers: 

So will their ghastly gaze betray their hidden fears." 

5 Ignorance of another's meaning is a sufficient cause of fear, 
and fear produces hatred: hence the suspicion and rancour 
entertained against all those who set up for greater refinement 
and wisdom than their neighbours. It is in vain to think of 
softening down this spirit of hostility by simplicity of manners, 

10 or by condescending to persons of low estate. The more you 
condescend, the more they will presume upon it; they will 
fear you less, but hate you more; and will be the more deter- 
mined to take their revenge on you for a superiority as to 
which they are entirely in the dark, and of which you your- 

15 self seem to entertain considerable doubts. All the humility 
in the world will only pass for weakness and folly. They 
have no notion of such a thing. They always put their best 
foot forward; and argue that you would do the same if you 
had any such wonderful talents as people say. You had bet- 

20 ter, therefore, play off the great man at once — hector, swag- 
ger, talk big, and ride the high horse over them : you may by 
this means extort outward respect or common civility; but 
you will get nothing (with low people) by forbearance and 
good-nature but open insult or silent contempt. C 

25 always talks to people about what they don't understand: 
I, for one, endeavour to talk to them about what they do 
understand, and find I only get the more ill-will by it. They 
conceive I do not think them capable of any thing better; 
that I do not think it worth while, as the vulgar saying is, to 

30 throw a word to a dog. I once complained of this to C , 

thinking it hard I should be sent to Coventry for not making 
a prodigious display. He said, "As you assume a certain 
character, you ought to produce your credentials. It is a 
tax upon people's goodnature to admit superiority of any 

35 kind, even where there is the most evident proof of it : but 
it is too hard a task for the imagination to admit it without 
any apparent ground at all." 
There is not a greater error than to suppose that you avoid 



DISADVANTAGES OF INTELLECTUAL SUPERIORITY 111 

the envy, malice, and uncharitableness, so common in the 
world, by going among people without pretensions. There 
are no people who have no pretensions; or the fewer their 
pretensions, the less they can afford to acknowledge yours 
without some sort of value received. The more information 5 
individuals possess, or the more they have refined upon any 
subject, the more readily can they conceive and admit the 
same kind of superiority to themselves that they feel over 
others. But from the low, dull, level sink of ignorance and 
vulgarity,, no idea or love of excellence can arise. You think 10 
you are doing mighty well with them; that you are laying 
aside the buckram of pedantry and pretence, and getting the 
character of a plain, unassuming, good sort of fellow. It will 
not do. All the while that you are making these familiar 
advances, and wanting to be at your ease, they are trying to 15 
recover the wind of you. You may forget that you are an 
author, an artist, or what not — they do not forget that they 
are nothing, nor bate one jot of their desire to prove you in 
the same predicament. They take hold of some circumstance 
in your dress; your manner of entering a room is different 20 
from that of other people; you do not eat vegetables — that's 
odd; you have a particular phrase, wliich they repeat, and 
this becomes a sort of standing joke; you look grave, or ill; 
you talk, or are more silent than usual; you are in or out of 
pocket: all these petty, inconsiderable circumstances, in 25 
which you resemble, or are unlike other people, form so many 
counts in the indictment which is going on in their imagi- 
nations against you, and are so many contradictions in your 
character. In anyone else they would pass unnoticed, but in 
a person of whom they had heard so much, they cannot make 30 
them out at all. Meanwhile, those things in which you may 
really excel, go for nothing, because they cannot judge of 
them. They speak highly of some book which you do not 
like, and therefore you make no answer. You recommend 
them to go and see some picture, in which they do not find 35 
much to admire. How are you to convince them that you 
are right? Can you make them perceive that the fault is in 
them, and not in the picture, unless you could give them your 



112 PHILOSOPHY AND REFLECTION 

knowledge? They hardly distinguish the difference between 
a Correggio and a common daub. Does this bring you any 
nearer to an understanding? The more you know of the 
difference, the more deeply you feel it, or the more earnestly 

5 you wish to convey it, the farther do you find yourseK re- 
moved to an immeasurable distance from the possibility of 
making them enter into views and feelings of which they have 
not even the first rudiments. You cannot make them see with 
your eyes, and they must judge for themselves. 

10 Intellectual is not like bodily strength. You have no hold 
of the understanding of others but by their sympathy. Your 
knowing, in fact, so much more about a subject does not give 
you a superiority, that is, a power over them, but only renders 
it the more impossible for you to make the least impression on 

16 them. Is it then an advantage to you? It may be, as it 
relates to your own private satisfaction, but it places a greater 
gulf between you and society. It throws stumbling blocks 
in your way at every turn. All that you take most pride and 
pleasure in is lost upon the vulgar eye. What they are pleased 

20 with is a matter of indifference or of distaste to you. In 
seeing a number of persons turn over a portfolio of prints from 
different masters, what a trial it is to the patience, how it 
jars the nerves to hear them fall into raptures at some 
connnonplace, flimsy thing, and pass over some divine ex- 

25 pression of countenance without notice, or with a remark that 
it is very singular-looking? How useless is it in such cases to 
fret or argue, or remonstrate? Is it not quite as well to be 
without all this hypercritical, fastidious knowledge, and to be 
pleased or displeased as it happens, or struck with the first 

30 fault or beauty that is pointed out by others? I would be 
glad almost to change my acquaintance with pictures, with 
books, and certainly, what I know of mankind, for anybody's 
ignorance of them! 

It is recorded in the life of some worthy (whose name I for- 

35 get) that he was one of those "who loved hospitality and 
respect;" and I profess to belong to the same classification of 
mankind. Civility is with me a jewel. I like a little comfort- 
able cheer, and careless, indolent chat. I hate to be always 



DISADVANTAGES OF INTELLECTUAL SUPERIORITY 113 

wise, or aiming at wisdom. I have enough to do with 
Uterary cabals, questions, critics, actors, essay writing, with- 
out taking them out with me for recreation, and into all 
companies. I wish at these times to pass for a good-humoured 
fellow; and good will is all I ask in return to make good 5 
company. I do not desire to be always posing myself or 
others with the questions of fate, free-will, foreknowledge 
absolute, etc. I must unbend sometimes. I must occasion- 
ally lie fallow. The kind of conversation that I affect most 
is what sort of a day it is, and whether it is likely to rain or 10 
hold up fine for to-morrow. This I consider as enjoying the 
otium cum dignitate, as the end and privilege of a life of study. 
I would resign myself to this state of easy indifference, but 
I find I cannot. I must maintain a certain pretension, which 
is far enough from my wish. I must be put on my defense, 15 
I must take up the gauntlet continually, or I find I lose 
ground. "I am nothing, if not critical." While I am think- 
ing what o'clock it is, or how I came to blunder in quoting a 
well-known passage, as if I had done it on purpose, others are 
thinking whether I am not really as dull a fellow as I am some- 20 
times said to be. If a drizzling shov/er patters against the 
windows, it puts me in mind of a mild spring rain from which 
I retired twenty years ago into a little public house near 
Wem in Shropshire, and while I saw the plants and shrubs 
before the door imbibe the dewy moisture, quaffed a glass of 25 
sparkling ale, and walked home in the dusk of evening, 
brighter to me than noon-day suns at present are! Would 
I indulge this feeling? In vain. They ask me what news 
there is, and stare if I say I don't know. If a new actress has 
come out, why must I have seen her? If a new novel has ap- 30 
peared, why must I have read it? I, at one time, used to go 
and take a hand at cribbage with a friend, and afterwards 
discuss a cold sirloin of beef, and throw out a few lack-a-daisi- 
cal remarks, in a way to please myself, but it would not do 
long. I set up little pretension, and therefore the little that 35 
I did set up was taken from me. As I said nothing on that 
subject myself, it was continually thrown in my teeth that 
I was an author. From having me at this disadvantage, my 



114 PHILOSOPHY AND REFLECTION 

friend wanted to peg on a hole or two in the game, and was 
displeased if I would not let him. If I won of him, it was hard 
he should be beat by an author. If he won, it would be 
strange if he did not understand the game better than I did. 
5 If I mentioned my favourite game of rackets, there was a 
general silence, as if this was my weak point. If I complained 
of being ill, it was asked why I made myself so? If I said such 
an actor had played a part well, the answer was, there was a 
different account in one of the newspapers. If any allusion 

10 was made to men of letters, there was a suppressed smile. 
If I told a humorous story, it was difficult to say whether the 
laugh was at me or at the narrative. The wife hated me 
for my ugly face; the servants because I could not always get 
them tickets for the play, and because they could not tell 

15 exactly what an author meant. If a paragraph appeared 
against anything I had written, I found it was ready there 
before me, and I was to undergo a regular roasting. I sub- 
mitted to all this till I was tired, and then I gave it up. 
One of the miseries of intellectual pretensions is, that nine- 

20 tenths of those you come in contact with do not know whether 
you are an impostor or not. I dread that certain anonymous 
criticisms should get into the hands of servants where I go, or 
that my hatter or shoemaker should happen to read them, who 
cannot possibly tell whether they are well or ill founded. 

25 The ignorance of the world leaves one at the mercy of its 
malice. There are people whose good opinion or good will 
you want, setting aside all literary pretensions; and it is hard 
to lose by an ill report (which you have no means of rectifying) 
what you cannot gain by a good one. After a diatribe in the 

30 , (which is taken in by a gentleman who occupies my old 

, apartments on the first floor) my landlord brings me up his 
bill (of some standing), and on my offering to give him so much 
in money, and a note of hand for the rest, shakes his head, and 
says, h • is afraid he could make no use of it. Soon after, 

35 the daughter comes in, and on my mentioning the circum- 
stance carelessly to her, replies gravely, ''that indeed her 
father has been almost ruined by bills." This is the un- 
kindest cut of all. It is vain for me to endeavour to explain 



DISADVANTAGES OF INTELLECTUAL SUPERIORITY 115 

that the pubHcation in which I am abused is a mere govern- 
ment engine — an organ of a poHtical faction. They know 
nothing about that. They only know such and such im- 
putations are thrown out; and the more I try to remove 
them, the more they think there is some truth in them. Per- 5 
haDS the people of the house are strong Tories — government 
agents of some sort. Is it for me to enlighten their ignorance? 
If I say, I once wrote a thing called Prince Maurice's Parrot, 
and an Essay on the Regal Character, in the former of which 
allusion is made to a noble marquis, and in the latter to a great 10 
personage (so at least, I am told, it has been construed), and 
that Mr. Croker has peremptory instructions to retaliate; 
they cannot conceive what connection there can be between 
me and such distinguished characters. I can get no farther. 
Such is the misery of pretensions beyond your situation, and 15 
which are not backed by any external symbols of wealth or 
rank, intelligible to all mankind! 

The impertinence of admiration is scarcely more tolerable 
than the demonstrations of contempt. I have known a 
person, whom I had never seen before, besiege me all dinner- 20 
time with asking what articles I had written in the Edinburgh 
Review? I was at last ashamed to answer to my splendid 
sins in that way. Others will pick out something not yours, 
and say, they are sure no one else could write it. By the 
first sentence they can always tell your style. Now I hate 25 
my style to be known; as I hate all idiosyncracy. These 
obsequious flatterers could not pay me a worse compliment. 
Then there are those who make a point of reading every- 
thing you write (which is fulsome) ; while others, more pro- 
voking, regularly lend your works to a friend as soon as they 30 
receive them. They pretty well know your notions on the 
different subjects, from having heard you talk about them. 
Besides, they have a greater value for your personal character 
than they have for your writings. You explain things better 
in a common way, when you are not aiming at effect. Others 35 
tell you of the faults they have heard found with your last 
book, and that they defend your style in general from a 
charge of obscurity. A friend once told me of a quarrel he 



116 PHILOSOPHY AND REFLECTION 

had with a near relation, who denied that I knew how to 
spell the commonest words. These are comfortable, con- 
fidential communications, to which authors, who have their 
friends and excusers, are subject. A gentleman told me that 
5 a lady had objected to my use of the word learneder, as bad 
grammar. He said that he thought it a pity that I did not 
take more care, but that the lady was perhaps prejudiced, as 
her husband held a government office. I looked for the word, 
and found it in a motto from Butler. I was piqued, and de- 

10 sired him to tell the fair critic that the fault was not in me, 
but in one who had far more wit, more learning, and loyalty 
than I could pretend to. Then, again, some will pick out 
the flattest thing of yours they can find, to load it with pane- 
gyrics; and others tell you (by the way of letting you see how 

15 high they rank your capacity), that your best passages are 

failures. L has a knack of tasting (or as he would say, 

palating) the insipid; L. H. has a trick of turning away from 
the relishing morsels you put on his plate. There is no getting 
the start of some people. Do what you will, they can do it 

20 better; meet with what success you may, their own good 
opinion stands them in better stead, and runs before the 
applause of the world. I once shewed a person of this over- 
weening turn (with no small triumph, I confess) a letter of a 
very flattering description I had received from the celebrated 

25 Count Stendhal, dated Rome. He returned it with a smile 
of indifference, and said he had had a letter from Rome 

himseK the day before, from his friend S ! I did not 

think this " germane to the matter." G — dw — n pretends 
I never wrote anything worth a farthing but my answers to 

30 Vetus, and that 1 fail altogether when I attempt to write an 
essay, or anything in a short compass. 

What can one do in such cases? Shall I confess a weak- 
ness? The only set-off I know to these rebuffs and morti- 
fications, is sometimes in an accidental notice or involuntary 

35 mark of distinction from a stranger. I feel the force of Hor- 
ace's digito monstrari — I like to be pointed out in the street, 
or to hear people ask in Mr. Powell's court, which is Mr. H. — ? 
This is to me a pleasing extension of one's personal identity. 



DISADVANTAGES OF INTELLECTUAL SUPERIORITY 117 

Your name so repeated leaves an echo like music on the ear; 
it stirs the blood like the sound of a trumpet. It shews that 
other people are curious to see you; that they think of you, 
and feel an interest in you without your knowing it. This 
is a bolster to lean upon; a lining to yoiu" poor, shivering, 5 
threadbare opinion of yourself. You want some such cordial 
to exhausted spirits, and relief to the dreariness of abstract 
speculation. You are something; and, from occupying a 
place in the thoughts of others, think less contemptuously of 
yourself. You are the better able to run the gauntlet of 10 
prejudice and vulgar abuse. It is pleasant in this way to 
have your opinion quoted against yourself, and your own 
sayings repeated to you as good things. I was once talking 
with an intelligent man in the pit, and criticising Mr. Knight's 
performance of Filch. "Ah!" he said, "httle Simmons was 15 
the fellow to play that character." He added, "There was 
a most excellent remark made upon his acting it in the 
Examiner (I think it was) — That he looked as if he had the 
gallows in one eye and a pirity girl in the other." I said noth- 
ing, but was in remarkably good humour the rest of the even- 20 
ing- I have seldom been in a company where fives-playing 
has been talked of, but some one has asked, in the course of 
it, "Pray did anyone ever see an account of one Cavanagh, 
that appeared some time back in most of the papers? Is it 
known who wrote it?" These are trying moments. I had 25 
a triumph over a person, whose name I will not mention, on 
the following occasion. I happened to be saying something 
about Burke, and was expressing my opinion of his talents 
in no measured terms, when this gentleman interrupted me 
by saying, he thought, for his part, that Burke had been 30 
greatly over-rated, and then added, in a careless way, "Pray 
did you read a character of him in the last number of the 

?" "I wrote it!" — I could not resist the antithesis, 

but was afterwards ashamed of my momentary petulance. 
Yet no one that I find ever spares me. 35 

Some persons seek out and obtrude themselves on public 
characters, in order, as it might seem, to pick out their fail- 
ings, and afterwards betray them. Appearances are for it, 



118 PHILOSOPHY AND REFLECTION 

but truth and a better knowledge of nature are against this 
interpretation of the matter. Sycophants and flatterers are 
undesignedly treacherous and fickle. They are prone to ad- 
mire inordinately at first, and not finding a constant supply of 
5 food for this kind of sickly appetite, take a distaste to the 
object of their idolatry. To be even with themselves for 
their credulity, they sharpen their wits to spy out faults, and 
are dehghted to find that this answers better than their first 
employment. It is a course of study, "lively, audible, and 

10 full of vent. " They have the organ of wonder and the organ 
of fear in a prominent degree. The first requires new objects 
of admiration to satisfy its uneasy cravings; the second makes 
them crouch to power wherever its shifting standard appears, 
and willing to curry favour with all parties, and ready to 

15 betray any out of sheer weakness and servility. I do not 
think they mean any harm. At least, I can look at this obli- 
quity with indifference in my own particular case. I have 
been more disposed to resent it as I have seen it practised 
upon others, where I have been better able to judge of the 

20 extent of the mischief, and the heartlessness and idiot folly 
it discovered. 

I do not think great intellectual attainments are any recom- 
mendation to the women. They puzzle them, and are a 
diversion to the main question. If scholars talk to ladies of 

25 what they understand, their hearers are none the wiser; if they 
talk of other things, they only prove themselves fools. The 
conversation between Angelica and Foresight, in Love for 
Love, is a receipt in full for all such overstrained nonsense: 
while he is wandering among the signs of the zodiac, she is 

30 standing a tip-toe on the earth. It has been remarked that 
poets do not choose mistresses very wasely. I believe it is 
not choice, but necessity. If they could throw the hand- 
kerchief like the Grand Turk, I imagine we should see scarce 
mortals, but rather goddesses, surrounding their steps, and 

35 each exclaiming, with Lord Byron's own Ionian maid — 

"So shalt thou find me ever at thy side, 
Here and hereafter, if the last may be!" 



DISADVANTAGES OF INTELLECTUAL SUPERIORITY 119 

Ah! no, these are bespoke, carried off by men of mortal, not 
ethereal mould, and thenceforth the poet, from whose mind 
the ideas of love and beauty are inseparable as dreams from 
sleep, goes on the forlorn hope of the passion, and dresses up 
the first Dulcinea that will take compassion on him, in all the 5 
colours of fancy. What boots it to complain if the delusion 
lasts for life, and the rainbow still paints its form in the cloud? 

There is one mistake I would wish, if possible, to correct. 
Men of letters, artists, and others, not succeeding with women 
in a certain rank of life, think the objection is to their want of 10 
fortune, and that they shall stand a better chance by descend- 
ing lower, where only their good qualities or talents will be 
thought of. Oh! worse and worse. The objection is to 
themselves, not to their fortune — to their abstraction, to 
their absence of mind, to their unintelligible and romantic 15 
notions. Women of education may have a glimpse of their 
meaning, may get a clue to their character, but to all others 
they are thick darkness. If the mistress smiles at their ideal 
advances, the maid will laugh outright; she will throw water 
over you, get her little sister to listen, send her sweetheart to 20 
ask you what you mean, will set the village or the house 
upon your back; it will be a farce, a comedy, a standing jest 
for a year, and then the murder will out. Scholars should be 
sworn at Highgate. They are no match for chamber maids, 
or wenches at lodging-houses. They had better try their 25 
hands on heiresses or ladies of quality. These last have 
high notions of themselves that may fit some of your epithets! 
They are above mortality, so are your thoughts! But with 
low life, trick, ignorance, and cunning, you have nothing in 
common. Whoever you are, that think you can make a 30 
compromise or a conquest there by good nature, or good sense, 
be warned by a friendly voice, and retreat in time from the 
unequal contest. 

If, as I have said above, scholars are no match for chamber- 
maids, on the other hand, gentlemen are no match for black- 35 
guards. The former are on their honour, act on the square; 
the latter take all advantages, and have no idea of any other 
principle. It is astonishing how soon a fellow without 



120 PHILOSOPHY AND REFLECTION 

education will learn to cheat. He is impervious to any ray 
of liberal knowledge; his understanding is 

"Not pierceable by power of any star" — 

but it is porous to all sorts of tricks, chicanery, stratagems, 
5 and knavery, by which anything is to be got. Mrs. Peachum, 
indeed, says, that ''to succeed at the gaming-table, the candi- 
date should have the education of a nobleman." I do not 
know how far this example contradicts my theory. I think 
it is a rule that men in business should not be taught other 

10 things. Anyone will be almost sure to make money who has 
no other idea in his head. A college education, or intense 
study of abstract truth, will not enable a man to drive a 
bargain, to over-reach another, or even to guard himself from 
being over-reached. As Shakespeare says, that "to have 

15 a good face is the effect of study, but reading and writing 
come by nature:" so it might be argued, that to be a knave 
is the gift of fortune, but to play the fool to advantage it is 
necessary to be a learned man. The best politicians are not 
those who are deeply grounded in mathematical or in ethical 

20 science. Rules stand in the way of expediency. Many a 
man has been hindered from pushing his fortune in the world 
by an early cultivation of his moral sense, and has repented 
of it at leisure during the rest of his life. A shrewd man said 
of my father, that he would not send a son of his to school to 

25 him on any account, for that by teaching him to speak the 
truth, he would disqualify him from getting his living in the 
world! 

It is hardly necessary to add any illustration to prove that 
the most original and profound thinkers are not always the 

30 most successful or popular writers. This is not merely a 
temporary disadvantage; but many great philosophers have 
not only been scouted while they were living, but forgotten 
as soon as they were dead. The name of Hobbes is perhaps 
sufficient to explain this assertion. But I do not wish to go 

35 farther into this part of the subject, which is obvious in itself. 
I have said, I believe, enough to take off the air of paradox 
which hangs over the title of this Essay. 



ON THE KNOWLEDGE OF CHARACTER 

It is astonishing, with all our opportunities and practice, 
how little we know of this subject. For myself, I feel that 
the more I learn, the less I understand it. 

I remember, several years ago, a conversation in the dili- 
gence coming from Paris, in which, on its being mentioned 5 
that a man had married his w^ife after thirteen years' court- 
ship, a fellow-countryman of mine observed, that ''then, at 
least, he would be acquainted with her character;" when a 

Monsieur P , inventor and proprietor of the Invisible 

Girl, made answer, "No, not at all; for that the very next 10 
day she might turn out the very reverse of the character that 
she had appeared in during all the preceding time. " ^ I 
could not help admiring the superior sagacity of the French 
juggler, and it struck me then that we could never be sure 
when we had got at the bottom of this riddle. 15 

There are various ways of getting at a knowledge of charac- 
ter — by looks, words, actions. The first of these, v/hich 
seems the most superficial, is perhaps the safest, and least 
liable to deceive; nay, it is that which mankind, in spite of 
their pretending to the contrary, most generally go by. 20 
Professions pass for nothing, and actions may be counter- 
feited; but a man cannot help his looks. "Speech," said 
a celebrated wit, "was given to man to conceal his thoughts." 
Yet I do not know that the greatest hypocrites are the least 
silent. The mouth of Cromwell is pursed up in the portraits 25 
of him, as if he was afraid to trust himself with words. Lord 
Chesterfield advises us, if we wish to know the real sentiments 
of the person we are conversing with, to look in his face, for 
he can more easily command his words than his features. A 
man's whole life may be a lie to himself and others; and yet 30 
a picture painted of him by a great artist would probably 

1 "It is not a year or two shows us a man." — ^Emilia, in Othello. 
121 



122 PHILOSOPHY AND REFLECTION 

stamp his true character on the canvas, and betray the secret 
to posterity. Men's opinions were divided, in their life-times, 
about such prominent personages as Charles V and Ignatius 
Loyola, partly, no doubt, from passion and interest, but partly 
5 from contradictory evidence in their ostensible conduct; 
the spectator, who has ever seen their pictures by Titian, 
judges of them at once, and truly. I had rather leave a good 
portrait of myself behind me than have a fine epitaph. The 
face, for the most part, tells what we have thought and felt 

10 — the rest is nothing. I have a higher idea of Donne from a 
rude, half-effaced outline of him prefixed to his poems than 
from anything he ever wrote. Caesar's Commentaries would 
not have redeemed him in my opinion, if the bust of him had 
resembled the Duke of W . My old friend, Fawcett, used 

15 to say, that if Sir Isaac Newton himself had lisped, he could 
not have thought anything of him. So I cannot persuade 
myself that anyone is a great man, who looks like a fool. 
In this I may be wrong. 

First impressions are often the truest, as we find (not un- 

20 frequently) to our cost, when we have been wheedled out of 
them by plausible professions or actions. A man's look is 
the work of years, it is stamped on his countenance by the 
events of his whole life, nay, more, by the hand of nature, and 
it is not to be got rid of easily. There is, as it has been re- 

25 marked repeatedly, something in a person's appearance at 
first sight which we do not like, and that gives us an odd 
twinge, but which is overlooked in a multiplicity of other 
circumstances, till the mask is taken off, and we see this lurk- 
ing character verified in the plainest manner in the sequel. 

30 We are struck at first, and by chance, with what is peculiar and 
characteristic; also with permanent traits and general effect; 
this afterwards goes "off in a set of unmeaning, commonplace 
details. This sort of prijna facie evidence then, shows what 
a man is, better than what he says or does; for it shows us the 

35 habit of his mind, which is the same under ah circumstances 
and disguises. You will say, on the other hand, that there is 
no judging by appearances, as a general rule. No one, for 
instance, would take such a person for a very clever man, 



ON THE KNOWLEDGE OF CHARACTER 123 

without knowing who he was. Then, ten to one, he is not; 
he may have got the reputation, but it is a mistake. You 

say, there is Mr. , undoubtedly a person of great genius: 

yet, except when excited by something extraordinary, he 
seems half dead. He has wit at will, yet wants life and 5 
spirit. He is capable of the most generous acts, yet meanness 
seems to cling to every motion. He looks like a poor creature 
— and in truth he is one! The first impression he gives you 
of him answers nearly to the feeling he has of his personal 
identity; and this image of himself, rising from his thoughts, 10 
and shrouding his faculties, is that which sits with him in the 
house, walks out mth him into the street, and haunts his 
bedside. The best part of his existence is dull, cloudy, 
leaden : the flashes of light that proceed from it, or streak it 
here and there, may dazzle others, but do not deceive him- 15 
self. Modesty is the lowest of the virtues, and is a real con- 
fession of the deficiency it indicates. He who undervalues 
himself is justly undervalued by others. Whatever good 
properties he may possess are, in fact, neutralised by a 
"cold rheum" running through his veins, and taking away 20 
the zest of his pretensions, the pith and marrow of his per- 
formances. What is it to me that I can write these Table- 
talks? It is true I can, by a reluctant effort, rake up a 
parcel of half-forgotten observations, but they do not float 
on the surface of my mind, nor stir it with any sense of pleas- 25 
ure, nor even of pride. Others have more property in them 
than I have: they may reap the benefit, / have only had the 
pain. Otherwise, they are to me as if they had never existed; 
nor should I know that I had ever thought at all, but that 
I am reminded of it by the strangeness of my appearance, 30 

and' my unfitness for everything else. Look in C 's face 

while he is talking. His words are such as might ''create a 
soul under the ribs of death." His face is a blank. Which 
are we to consider as the true index of his mind? Pain, 
languor, shadowy remembrances, are the uneasy inmates 35 
there: his lips move mechanically! 

There are people that we do not like, though we may have 
known them long, and have no fault to find with them, 



124 PHILOSOPHY AND REFLECTION 

''their appearance, as we say, is so much against them." 
That is not all, if we could find it out. There is, generally, 
a reason for this prejudice; for nature is true to itself. They 
may be very good sort of people, too, in their way, but still 
6 something is the matter. There is a coldness, a selfishness, 
a levity, an insincerity, which we cannot fix upon any par- 
ticular phrase or action, but we see it in their whole persons 
and deportment. One reason that we do not see it in any 
other way may be, that they are all the time trying to conceal 

10 this defect by every means in their power. There is, luckily, 
a sort of second sight in morals: we discern the lurking indi- 
cations of temper and habit a long while before their palpable 
effects appear. I once used to meet with a person at an 
ordinary, a very civil, good-looking man in other respects, 

15 but with an odd look about his eyes, which I could not 
explain, as if he saw you under their fringed lids, and you could 
not see him again: this man was a common sharper. The 
greatest hypocrite I ever knew was a little, demure, pretty, 
modest-looking girl, with eyes timidly cast upon the ground, 

20 and an air soft as enchantment; the only circumstance that 
could lead to a suspicion of her true character was a cold, 
sullen, watery, glazed look about the eyes, which she bent on 
vacancy, as if determined to avoid all explanation with yours. 
I might have spied in their glittering, motionless surface, the 

25 rocks and quicksands that awaited me below! We do not feel 
quite at ease in the company or friendship of those who have 
any natural obliquity or imperfection of person. The reason 
is, they are not on the best terms with themselves, and are 
sometimes apt to play off on others the tricks that nature 

30 has played them. This, however, is a remark that, perhaps, 
ought not to have been made. I know a person to whom it 
has been objected as a disqualification for friendship, that 
he never shakes you cordially by the hand. I own this is a 
damper to sanguine and florid temperaments, who abound 

35 in these practical demonstrations and "compliments extern." 
The same person, who testifies the least pleasure at meeting 
you, is the last to quit his seat in your company, grapples with 
a subject in conversation right earnestly, and is, I take it, 



ON THE KNOWLEDGE OF CHARACTER 125 

backward to give up a cause or a friend. Cold and distant 
in appearance, he piques himself on being the king of good 
haters, and a no less zealous partisan. The most phlegmatic 
constitutions often contain the most inflammable spirits — 
as fire is struck from the hardest flints. 5 

And this is another reason that makes it difficult to judge 
of character. Extremes meet; and qualities display them- 
selves by the most contradictory appearances. Any inclina- 
tion, in consequence of being generally suppressed, vents 
itself the more violently when an opportunity presents itself; 10 
the greatest grossness sometimes accompanies the greatest 
refinement, as a natural relief, one to the other; and we find 
the most reserved and indifferent tempers at the beginning of 
an entertainment, or an acquaintance, turn out the most 
communicative and cordial at the end of it. Some spirits 15 
exhaust themselves at first: others gain strength by pro- 
gression. Some minds have a greater facility of throwing 
off impressions, are, as it were, more transparent or porous 
than others. Thus the French present a marked contrast 
to the English in this respect. A Frenchman addresses you 20 
at once with a sort of lively indifference: an Englishman is 
more on his guard, feels his way, and is either exceedingly 
reserved, or lets you into his whole confidence, which he 
cannot so well impart to an entire stranger. Again, a French- 
man is naturally humane: an Englishman is, I should say, 25 
only friendly by habit. His virtues and his vices cost him 
more than they do his more gay and volatile neighbours. 
An Englishman is said to speak his mind more plainly than 
others: — yes, if it will give you pain to hear it. He does not 
care whom he offends by his discourse: a foreigner generally 30 
strives to oblige in what he says. The French are accused of 
promising more than they perform. That may be, and yet 
they may perform as many good-natured acts as the English, 
if the latter are as averse to perform as they are to promise. 
Even the professions of the French may be sincere at the time, 35 
or arise out of the impulse of the moment; though their 
desire to serve you may be neither very violent nor very 
lasting. I cannot think, notwithstanding, that the French 



126 PHILOSOPHY AND REFLECTION 

are not a serious people; na}^ that they are not a more re- 
flecting people than the common run of the English. Let 
those who think them merely light and mercurial, explain that 
enigma, their everlasting prosing tragedy. The English are 
5 considered as comparatively a slow, plodding people. If the 
French are quicker, they are also more plodding. See, for 
example, how highly finished and elaborate their works of art 
are! How systematic and correct they aim at being in all their 
productions of a graver cast! "If the French have a fault," 

10 as Yorick said, ''it is that they are too grave." With wit, 
sense, cheerfulness, patience, good-nature and refinement of 
manners, all they want is imagination and sturdiness of moral 
principle! Such are some of the contradictions in the charac- 
ter of the two nations, and so little does the character of 

15 either appear to have been understood! Nothing can be 
more ridiculous indeed than the way in which we exaggerate 
each other's vices and extenuate our own. The whole is an 
affair of prejudice on one side of the question, and of par- 
tiality on the other. Travellers who set out to carry back a 

20 true report of the case appear to lose not only the use of their 
understandings, but of their senses, the instant they set 
foot in a foreign land. The commonest facts and appearances 
are distorted and discoloured. They go abroad with certain 
preconceived notions on the subject, and they make every 

25 thing answer, in reason's spite, to their favourite theory. 
In addition to the difficulty of explaining customs and man- 
ners foreign to our own, there are all the obstacles of wilful 
prepossession thrown in the way. It is not, therefore, much 
to be wondered at that nations have arrived at so little 

30 knowledge of one another's characters; and that, where the 
object has been to widen the breach between them, any slight 
differences that occur are easily blown into a blaze of fury by 
repeated misrepresentations, and all the exaggerations that 
malice or folly can invent! 

35 This ignorance of character is not confined to foreign 
nations: we are ignorant of that of our own countrymen in a 
class a little below or above ourselves. We shall hardly 
pretend to pronounce magisterially on the good or bad quali- 



ON THE KNOWLEDGE OF CHARACTER 127 

ties of strangers; and, at the same time, we are ignorant of 
those of our friends, of our kindred, and of our own. We 
are in all these cases either too near or too far off the object to 
judge of it properly. 

Persons, for instance, in a higher or middle rank of life 5 
know little or nothing of the characters of those below them, 
as servants, country people, etc. I would lay it down in the 
first place as a general rule on this subject, that all unedu- 
cated people are hypocrites. Their sole business is to deceive. 
They conceive themselves in a state of hostility with others, 10 
and stratagems are fair in war. The inmates of the kitchen 
and the parlour are always (as far as respects their feeling and 
intentions towards each other) in Hobbes's ''state of nature." 
Servants and others in that line of life have nothing to exer- 
cise their spare talents for invention upon but those about 15 
them. Their superfluous electrical particles of wit and fancy 
are not carried off by those established and fashionable 
conductors, novels and romances. Their faculties are not 
buried in books, but all alive and stirring, erect and bristling 
like a cat's back. Their coarse conversation sparkles with 20 
"wild wit, invention ever new." Their betters try all they 
can to set themselves up above them, and they try all they 
can to pull them down to their own level. They do this by 
getting up a httle comic interlude, a daily, domestic, homely 
drama out of the odds and ends of the family failings, of 25 
which there is in general a pretty plentiful supply, or make up 
the deficiency of materials out of their own heads. They 
turn the qualities of their masters and mistresses inside out, 
and any real kindness or condescension only sets them the 
more against you. They are not to be taken in that way — 30 
they' will not be balked in the spite they have to you. They 
only set to work with redoubled alacrity, to lessen the favour 
or to blacken your character. They feel themselves like a 
degraded caste, and cannot understand how the obligations 
can be all on one side, and the advantages all on the other. 35 
You cannot come to equal terms with them — they reject all 
such overtures as insidious and hollow — nor can you ever 
calculate upon their gratitude or good will, any more than if 



128 PHILOSOPHY AND REFLECTION 

they were so many strolling Gipsies or wild Indians. They 
have no fellow-feeling, they keep no faith with the more 
privileged classes. They are in your power, and they en- 
deavour to be even with you by trick and cunning, by lying 
5 and chicanery. In this they have nothing to restrain them. 
Their whole life is a succession of shifts, excuses, and expe- 
dients. The love of truth is a principle with those only who 
have made it their study, who have applied themselves to the 
pursuit of some art or science where the intellect is severely 

10 tasked, and learns by habit to take a pride in, and to set a 
just value on, the correctness of its conclusions. To have a 
disinterested regard to truth, the mind must have contem- 
plated it in abstract and remote questions; whereas the ig- 
norant and vulgar are only conversant with those things in 

15 which their own interest is concerned. All their notions are 
local, personal, and consequently gross and selfish. They say 
whatever comes uppermost — turn whatever happens to 
their own account — and invent any story, or give any an- 
swer that suits their purposes. Instead of being bigoted to 

20 general principles, they trump up any lie for the occasion, 
and the more of a thumper it is, the better they like it; the 
more unlooked-for it is, why, so much the more of a God-send! 
They have no conscience about the matter; and if you find 
them out in any of their manoeuvres, are not ashamed of 

25 themselves, but angry with you. If you remonstrate with 
them, they laugh in your face. The only hold you have of 
them is their interest — you can but dismiss them from your 
employment; and service is no inheritance. If they affect 
anything like decent remorse, and hope you will pass it over, 

30 all the while they are probably trying to recover the wind of 
you. Persons of Hberal knowledge or sentiments have no 
kind of chance in this sort of mixed intercourse with these 
barbarians in civilised life. You cannot tell, by any signs or 
principles, what is passing in their minds. There is no com- 

35mon point of view between you. You have not the same 
topics to refer to, the same language to express yourself. 
Your interests, your feelings are quite distinct. You take 
certain things for granted as rules of action : they take nothing 



ON THE KNOWLEDGE OF CHARACTER 129 

for granted but their own ends, pick up all their knowledge 
out of their own occasions, are on the watch only for what 
they can catch — are 

"Subtle as the fox for prey: 
Like warlike as the wolf, for what they eat. " 5 

They have indeed a regard to then character, as this last may 
affect their livelihood or advancement, none as it is connected 
with a sense of propriety; and this sets their mother-wits and 
native talents at work upon a double file of expedients, to 
bilk their consciences and salve their reputation. In short, 10 
you never know where to have them, any more than if they 
were of a different species of animals; and in trusting to them, 
you are sure to be betrayed and over-reached. You have 
other things to mind, they are thinking only of you, and how 
to turn you to advantage. Give and take is no maxim here. 15 
You can build nothing on your own moderation or on their 
false dehcacy. After a familiar conversation with a waiter 
at a tavern, you over-hear him calling you by some pro- 
voking nickname. If you make a present to the daughter of 
the house where you lodge, the mother is sure to recollect 20 
some addition to her bill. It is a running fight. In fact, 
there is a principle in human nature not wiUingly to endure 
the idea of a superior, a sour Jacobinical disposition to wipe 
out the score of obligation, or efface the tinsel of external 
advantages — and where others have the opportunity of 25 
coming m contact with us, they generally find the means to 
estabhsh a sufficiently marked degree of degrading equality. 
No man is a hero to his valet-de-chambre, is an old maxim. 
A new illustration of this principle occurred the other day. 
While Mrs. Siddons was giving her readmgs of Shakespeare 30 
to a brilliant and admiring drawing-room, one of the servants 
in the hall below was saying, "What, I find the old lady is 
making as much noise as ever! " So little is there in common 
between the different classes of society, and so impossible is 
it ever to unite the diversities of custom and knowledge which 35 
separate them. 

Women, according to Mrs. Peachum, are ''bitter bad 
judges" of the characters of men; and the men are not much 



130 PHILOSOPHY AND KEFLECTION 

better of theirs, if we can form any guess from their choice 
in marriage. Love is proverbially blind. The whole is an 
affair of whim and fancy. Certain it is, that the greatest 
favourites with the other sex are not those who are most 

5 liked or respected among their own. I never knew but one 
clever man who was what is called a lady's man; and he (un- 
fortunately for the argument) happened to be a considerable 
coxcomb. It was by this irresistible quality, and not by the 
force of his genius, that he vanquished. Women seem to 

10 doubt their own judgments in love, and to take the opinion 
which a man entertains of his own prowess and accomplish- 
ments for granted. The wives of poets are (for the most 
part) mere pieces of furniture in the room. If you speak to 
them of their husbands' talents or reputation in the world, 

15 it is as if you made mention of some office that they held. 
It can hardly be otherwise, when the instant any subject is 
started or conversation arises in which men are interested or 
try one another's strength, the women leave the room, or 
attend fo something else. The qualities then in which men 

20 are ambitious to excel, and which ensure the applause of the 
world, eloquence, genius, learning, integrity, are not those 
which gain the favour of the fair. I must not deny, however, 
that wit and courage have this effect. Neither is youth or 
beauty the sole passport to their affections. 

25 "The way of woman's will is hard to find, 

Harder to hit." 

Yet there is some clue to this mystery, some determining 
cause; for we find that the same men are universal favourites 
with women, as others are uniformly disliked by them. Is not 

30 the load-stone that attracts so powerfully, and in all circum- 
stances, a strong and undisguised bias towards them, a marked 
attention, a conscious preference of them to every other pass- 
ing object or topic? I am not sure, but I incline to think so. 
The successful lover is the cavalier servente of all nations. 

35 The man of gallantry behaves as if he had made an assigna- 
tion with every woman he addresses. An argument immedi- 
ately draws off my attention from the prettiest woman in the 



ON THE KNOWLEDGE OF CHARACTER 131 

room. I accordingly succeed better in argument — than in 
love! — I do not think that what is called Love at first sight 
is so great an absurdity as it is sometimes imagined to be. 
We generally make up our minds beforehand to the sort of 
person we should like, grave or gay, black, brown, or fair; 5 
with golden tresses or with raven locks; — and when we meet 
with a complete example of the qualities we admire, the bar- 
gain is soon struck. We have never seen anything to come 
up to our newly discovered goddess before, but she is what we 
have been all our lives looking for. The idol we fall down and 10 
worship is an image familiar to our minds. It has been pres- 
ent to our waking thoughts, it has haunted us in our dreams, 
like some fairy vision. Oh! thou, who, the first time I ever 
beheld thee, didst draw my soul into the circle of thy heavenly 
looks, and wave enchantment round me, do not think thy 15 
conquest less complete because it was instantaneous; for 
in that gentle form (as if another Imogen had entered) I saw 
all that I had ever loved of female grace, modesty, and 
svv^eetness! 

I shall not say much of friendship as giving an insight into 20 
character, because it is often founded on mutual infirmities 
and prejudices. Friendships are frequently taken up on 
some sudden sympathy, and we see only as much as we please 
of one another's characters afterwards. Intimate friends are 
not fair witnesses to character, any more than professed 25 
enemies. They cool, indeed, in time, part, and retain only 
a rankling grudge at past errors and oversights. Their testi- 
mony in the latter case is not quite free from suspicion. 

One would think that near relations, who live constantly 
together, and always have done so, must be pretty well ac-30 
quainted w^ith one another's characters. They are nearly in 
the dark about it. Familiarity confounds all traits of dis- 
tinction: interest and prejudice take away the power of 
judging. We have no opinion on the subject, any more than 
of one another's faces. The Penates, the household gods, 35 
are veiled. We do not see the features of those we love, nor 
do we clearly distinguish their virtues or their vices. We 
take them as they are found in the lump: — by weight, and not 



132 PHILOSOPHY AND REFLECTION 

by measure. We know all about the individuals, their senti- 
ments, history, manners, words, actions, everything: but we 
know all these too much as facts, as inveterate, habitual 
impressions, as clothed with too many associations, as sanc- 
5 tified with too many affections, as woven too much into the 
web of our hearts, to be able to pick out the different threads, 
to cast up the items of the debtor and creditor account, or 
to refer them to any general standard of right and wrong. 
Our impressions with respect to them are too strong, too real, 

10 too much sui generis, to be capable of a comparison with any- 
thing but themselves. We hardly inquire whether those for 
whom we are thus interested, and to whom we are thus knit, 
are better or worse than others — the question is a kind of 
profanation — all we know is, they are more to us than any- 

15 one else can be. Our sentiments of this kind are rooted and 
grow in us, and we cannot eradicate them by voluntary means. 
Besides, our judgments are bespoke, our interests take part 
with our blood. If any doubt arises, if the veil of our impli- 
cit confidence is drawn aside by any accident for a moment, 

20 the shock is too great, like that of a dislocated limb, and we 
recoil on our habitual impressions again. Let not that veil 
ever be rent entirely asunder, so that those images may be left 
bare of reverential awe, and lose their religion: for nothing 
can ever support the desolation of the heart afterwards. 

25 The greatest misfortune that can happen among relations 
is a different way of bringing up, so as to set one another's 
opinions and characters in an entirely new point of view. 
This often lets in an unwelcome daylight on the subject, and 
breeds schisms, coldness, and incurable heart-burnings in 

30 families. I have sometimes thought whether the progress 
of society and march of knowledge does not do more harm in 
this respect, by loosening the ties of domestic attachment, 
and preventing those who are most interested in, and anxious 
to think well of one another, from feeling a cordial sympathy 

35 and approbation of each other's sentiments, manners, views, 
etc., than it does good by any real advantage to the com- 
munity at large. The son, for instance, is brought up to the 
church, and nothing can exceed the pride and pleasure the 



ON THE KNOWLEDGE OF CHARACTER 133 

father takes in him, while all goes on well in this favourite, 
direction. His notions change, and he imbibes a taste for 
the Fine Arts. From this moment there is an end of any- 
thing like the same unreserved communication between them. 
The young man may talk with enthusiasm of his "Rem- 5 
brandts, Correggios, and stuff:" it is all Hebrew to the elder; 
and whatever satisfaction he may feel in hearing of his son's 
progress, or good wishes for his success, he is never reconciled 
to the new pursuit, he still hankers after the first object that 
he had set his mind upon. Again, the grandfather is a Cal- 10 
vinist, who never gets the better of his disappointment at bis 
son's going over to the Unitarian side of the question. The 
matter rests here, till the grandson, some years after, in the 
fashion of the day and ''infinite agitation of men's wit," 
comes to doubt certain points in the creed in which he has 15 
been brought up, and the affair is all abroad again. Here are 
three generations made uncomfortable and in a manner set 
at variance, by a veering point of theology, and the officious, 
meddling, biblical critics! Nothing, on the other hand, can 
be more wretched or common than that upstart pride and 20 
insolent good fortune which is ashamed of its origin; nor are 
there many things more awkward than the situation of rich 
and poor relations. Happy, much happier, are those tribes 
and people who are confined to the same caste and way of life 
from sire to son, where prejudices are transmitted like in- 25 
stincts, and where the same unvarying standard of opinion 
and refinement blends countless generations in its impro- 
gressive, everlasing mould! 

Not only is there a wilful and habitual blindness in near 
kindred to each other's defects, but an incapacity to judge 30 
from the quantity of materials, from the contradictoriness of 
the evidence. The chain of particulars is too long and massy 
for us to lift it or put it into the most approved ethical scales. 
The concrete result does not answer to any abstract theory, 
to any logical definition. There is black, and white, and grey, 35 
square and round — there are too many anomalies, too many 
redeeming points, in poor human nature, such as it actually 
is, for us to arrive at a smart, summary decision on it. We 



134 PHILOSOPHY AND REFLECTION 

know too mucn to come to any hasty or partial conclusion. 
We do not pronounce upon the present act, because a hundred 
others rise up to contradict it. We suspend our judgments 
altogether, because in effect one thing unconsciously balances 
5 another; and perhaps this obstinate, pertinacious indecision 
would be the truest philosophy in other cases, where we dis- 
pose of the question of character easily, because we have 
only the smallest part of the evidence to decide upon. Real 
character is not one thing, but a thousand things; actual 

10 qualities do not conform to any factitious standard in the 
mind, but rest upon their own truth and nature. The dull 
stupor under which we labour in respect of those whom we 
have the greatest opportunities of inspecting nearly, we should 
do well to imitate, before we give extreme and uncharitable 

15 verdicts against those whom we only see in passing, or at a 
distance. If we knew them better, we should be disposed to 
say less about them. 

In the truth of things, there are none utterly worthless, 
none without some drawback on their pretensions, or some 

20 alloy of imperfection. It has been observed that a familiarity 
with the worst characters lessens our abhorrence of them; 
and a wonder is often expressed that the greatest criminals 
look like other men. The reason is that the^j are like other 
men in many respects. If a particular individual was merely 

25 the wretch we read of, or conceive in the abstract, that is, if 
he was the mere personified idea of the criminal brought to 
the bar, he would not disappoint the spectator, but would 
look like what he would be — a monster! But he has other 
qualities, ideas, feelings, nay, probably virtues, mixed up with 

30 the most profligate habits or desperate acts. This need not 
lessen our abhorrence of the crime, though it does of the 
criminal; for it has the latter effect only by showing him to us 
in different points of view, in which he appears a common 
mortal, and not the caricature of vice we took him for, or 

35 spotted all over with infamy. I do not at the same time 
think this a lax or dangerous, though it is a charitable view of 
the subject. In my opinion, no man ever answered in his 
own mind (except in the agonies of conscience or of repentance, 



ON THE KNOWLEDGE OF CHARACTER 135 

in which latter case he throws the imputation from himself 
in another way) to the abstract idea of a 7nurderer. He may 
have killed a man in self-defence, or "in the trade of war," 
or to save himself from starving, or in revenge for an injury, 
but always "so as with a difference," or from mixed and 5 
questionable motives. The individual, in reckoning with 
himself, always takes into the account the consideration of 
time, place, and circumstance, and never makes out a case 
of unmitigated, unprovoked villany, of "pure defecated evil" 
against himself . There are degrees in real crimes : we reason 10 
and moralise only by names and in classes. I should be loth, 
indeed, to" say, that "whatever is, is right:" but almost every 
actual choice inclines to it, with some sort of imperfect, 
unconscious bias. This is the reason, besides the ends of 
secresy, of the invention of slang terms for different acts of 15 
profligacy committed by thieves, pickpockets, etc. The 
common names suggest associations of disgust in the minds of 
others, which those who live by them do not willingly recog- 
nise, and which they wish to sink in a technical phraseology. 
So there is a story of a fellow who, as he was writing down his 20 
confession of a murder, stopped to ask how the word murder 
was spelt ; this, if true, was partly because his imagination was 
staggered by the recollection of the thing, and partly because 
he shrunk from the verbal admission of it. "Amen stuck in 
his throat!" The defence made by Eugene Aram of himself 25 
against a charge of murder, some years before, shows that he 
in imagination completely flung from himself the nominal 
crime imputed to him; he might indeed, have staggered an 
old man, with a blow, and buried his body in a cave, and lived 
ever since upon the money he found upon hun, but there 30 
was' "no malice in the case, none at all," as Peachum says. 
The very coolness, subtlety, and circumspection of his de- 
fence (as masterly a legal document as there is upon record) 
prove that he was guilty of the act, as much as they prove 
that he was unconscious of the crime} In the same spirit, 35 

' The bones of the murdered man were dug up in an old hermi- 
tage. On this, as one instance of the acuteness which he displayed 
all through the occasion, Aram remarks, "Where would you expect 



136 PHILOSOPHY AND REFLECTION 

and I conceive with great metaphysical truth, Mr. Coleridge, 
in his tragedy of Remorse, makes Ordonio (his chief charac- 
ter) wave the acknowledgment of his meditated guilt to his 
own mind, by putting into his mouth that striking soliloquy: 

5 "Say, I had lay'd a body in the sun! 

Well! in a month there swarm forth from the corse 
A thousand, nay, ten thousand sentient beings 
In place of that one man. Say I had kilVd him! 
Yet who shall tell me, that each one and all 
10 Of these ten thousand lives is not as happy 

As that one life, which being push'd aside. 
Made room for these unnumber'd. " — Act ii, sc. ii. 

I am not sure, indeed, that I have not got this whole train 
of speculation from him; but I should not think the worse of 

15 it on that account. That gentleman, I recollect, once asked 
me whether I thought that the different members of a family 
really like one another so well, or had so much attachment as 
was generally supposed; and I said that I conceived the regard 
they had towards each other was expressed by the word 

20 interest, rather than by any other; which he said was the true 
answer. I do not know that I could mend it now. Natural 
affection is not pleasure in one another's company, nor ad- 
miration of one another's qualities; but it is an intimate and 
deep knowledge of the things that affect those to whom we 

25 are bound by the nearest ties, with pleasure or pain; it is an 
anxious, uneasy, fellow-feeling with them, a jealous watchful- 
ness over their good name, a tender and unconquerable 
yearning for their good. The love, in short, we bear them, is 
the nearest to that we bear ourselves. Home, according to 

80 the old saying, is home, be it never so homely. We love our- 
selves, not according to our deserts, but our cravings after 
good: so we love our immediate relations in the next degree 
(if not, even sometimes a higher one) because we know best 
what they have suffered and what sits nearest to their hearts. 

35 We are implicated, in fact, in their welfare, by habit and 
sympathy, as we are in our own. 

to find the bones of a man sooner than in a hermit's cell, except you 
were to look for them in a cemetery?" See Newgate Calendar for 
the year 1758 or 9. 



ON THE KNOWLEDGE OF CHARACTER 137 

If our devotion to our owii interests is much the same as to 
theirs, we are ignorant of our own characters for the same 
reason. We are parties too much concerned to return a fair 
verdict, and are too much in the secret of our own motives or 
situation not to be able to give a favourable turn to our 5 
actions. We exercise a liberal criticism upon ourselves, and 
put off the final decision to a late day. The field is large and 
open. Hamlet exclaims, with a noble magnanimity, "I 
count myself indifferent honest, and yet I accuse me of such 
things!" If you could prove to a man that he is a knave, it 10 
would not make much difference in his opinion, his self-love 
is stronger than his love of virtue. Hypocrisy is generally 
used as a mask to deceive the world, not to impose on our- 
selves: for once detect the delinquent in his knavery, and 
he laughs in your face or glories in his iniquity. This at least 15 
happens except where there is a contradiction in the character 
and our vices are involuntary, and at variance with our 
convictions. One great difficulty is to distinguish ostensible 
motives, or such as we acknowledge to ourselves, from tacit 
or secret springs of action. A man changes his opinion 20 
readily, he thinks it candour: it is levity of mind. For the 
most part, we are stunned and stupid in judging of ourselves. 
We are callous by custom to our defects or excellencies, un- 
less where vanity steps in to exaggerate or extenuate them. 
I cannot conceive how it is that people are in love with their 25 
own persons, or astonished at their own performances, which 
are but a nine days' wonder to every one else. In general it 
may be laid down that we are liable to this twofold mistake 
in judging of our own talents: we, in the first place, nurse 
the rickety bantling, we think much of that which has cost 30 
us much pains and labour, and comes against the grain; and 
we also set Uttle store by what we do with most ease to our- 
selves, and therefore best. The works of the greatest genius 
are produced almost unconsciously, with an ignorance on the 
part of the persons themselves that they have done anything 35 
extraordinary. Nature has done it for them. How little 
Shakespeare seems to have thought of himself or of his fame! 
Yet, if 'Ho know another well, were to know one's self," he 



138 PHILOSOPHY AND REFLECTION 

must have been acquainted with his own pretensions and 
character, ''who knew all qualities with a learned spirit." 
His eye seems never to have been bent upon himself, but 
outwards upon nature. A man, who thinks highly of him- 
6 seK, may almost set it down that it is without reason. Milton, 
notwithstanding, appears to have had a high opinion of 
himself, and to have made it good. He was conscious of his 
powers, and great by design. Perhaps his tenaciousness, on 
the score of his own merit, might arise from an early habit 

10 of polemical writing, in which his pretensions were con- 
tinually called to the bar of prejudice and party spirit, and 
he had to plead not guilty to the indictment. Some men have 
died unconscious of immortality, as others have almost ex- 
hausted the sense of it in their life-times. Correggio might be 

15 mentioned as an instance of the one, Voltaire of the other. 
There is nothing that helps a man in his conduct through 
life more than a knowledge of his own characteristic weak- 
nesses (which, guarded against, become his strength), as 
there is nothing that tends more to the success of a man's 

20 talents than his knowing the limits of his faculties, which are 
thus concentrated on some practicable object. One man can 
do but one thing. Universal pretensions end in nothing. 
Or, as Butler has it, too much wit requires 
"As much again to govern it." 

25 There are those who have gone, for want of this self-knowl- 
edge, strangely out of their way, and others who have never 
found it. We find many who succeed in certain departments, 
and are yet melancholy and dissatisfied, because they failed 
in the one to which they first devoted themselves, like dis- 

30 carded lovers who pine after their scornful mistress. I will 
conclude with observing that authors in general overrate the 
extent and value of posthumous fame: for what (as it has 
been asked) is the amount even of Shakespeare's fame? That 
in that very country which boasts his genius and his birth, 

%5 perhaps, scarce one person in ten has ever heard of his name, 
or read a syllable of his writings! 



ON THE FEAR OF DEATH 

"And our little life is rounded with a sleep." 

Perhaps the best cure for the fear of death is to reflect that 
Hfe has a beginning as well as an end. There was a time when 
we were not : this gives us no concern — why then should it 
trouble us that a time will come when we shall cease to be? 5 
I have no wish to have been alive a hundred years ago, or in 
the reign of Queen Anne: whj^ should I regret and lay it so 
much to heart that I shall not be alive a hundred years hence, 
in the reign of I cannot tell whom? 

When Bickerstaff wrote his Essays, I knew nothing of the 10 
subjects of them; nay, much later, and but the other day, 
as it were, in the beginning of the reign of George III, when 
Goldsmith, Johnson, Burke, used to meet at the Globe, when 
Garrick was in his glory, and Reynolds was over head and ears 
with his portraits, and Sterne brought out the volumes of 15 
Tristram Shandy year by year, it was without consulting me. 
I had not the slightest intimation of what was going on : the 
debates in the House of Commons on the American war, or 
the firing at Bunker's Hill, disturbed not me: yet I thought 
this no evil — I neither ate, drank, nor was merry, yet I did 20 
not complain: I had not then looked out into this breathing 
world, yet I was well; and the world did quite as well without 
me as I did without it! Why then should I make all this out- 
cry about parting with it, and being no worse off than I was 
before? There is nothing in the recollection that at a certain 25 
time we were not come into the world, that "the gorge rises 
at" — why should we revolt at the idea that we must one day 
go out of it? To die is only to be as we were before we were 
born; yet no one feels any remorse, or regret, or repugnance, 
in contemplating this last idea. It is rather a relief and dis- 30 
burthening of the mind; it seems to have been holiday time 
with us then; we were not called to appear upon the stage 

139 



140 PHILOSOPHY AND REFLECTION 

of life, to wear robes or tatters, to laugh or cry, be hooted 
or applauded; we had lain perdus all this while, snug, out 
of harm's way; and had slept out our thousands of centuries 
without wanting to be waked up ; at peace and free from care, 

6 in a long nonage, in a sleep deeper and calmer than that of 
infancy, wrapped in the softest and finest dust. And the 
worst that we dread is, after a short, fretful, feverish being, 
after vain hopes, and idle fears, to sink to final repose again, 
and forget the troubled dream of life! ... Ye armed men, 

10 knights templars, that sleep in the stone aisles of that old 
Temple church, where all is silent above, and where a deeper 
silence reigns below (not broken by the pealing organ), are ye 
not contented where ye lie? Or would you come out of your 
long homes to go to the Holy War? Or do ye complain that 

15 pain no longer visits you, that sickness has done its worst, 
that you have paid the last debt to nature, that you hear no 
more of the thickening phalanx of the foe, or your lady's 
waning love ; and that while this ball of earth rolls its eternal 
round, no sound shall ever pierce through to disturb your 

20 lasting repose, fixed as the marble over your tombs, breath- 
less as the grave that holds you! And thou, oh! thou, to whom 
my heart turns, and will turn while it has feeling left, who 
didst love in vain, and whose first was thy last sigh, wilt not 
thou too rest in peace (or wilt thou cry to me complaining from 

25 thy clay-cold bed) when that sad heart is no longer sad, and 
that sorrow is dead which thou wert only called into the world 
to feel! 

It is certain that there is nothing in the idea of a pre-existent 
state that excites our longing like the prospect of a posthu- 

30 mous existence. We are satisfied to have begun life when we 
did; we have no ambition to have set out on our journey 
sooner; and feel that we have had quite enough to do to 
battle our way through since. We cannot say, 

"The wars we well remember of King Nine, 
35 Of old Assaracus and Inachus divine." 

Neither have we any wish : we are contented to read of them 
in story, and to stand and gaze at the vast sea of time that 



ON THE FEAR OF DEATH 141 

separates us from them. It was early days then: the world 
was not well-aired enough for us; we have no inclination to 
have been up and stirring. We do not consider the six thou- 
sand years of the world before we were born as so much time 
lost to us : we' are perfectly indifferent about the matter. We 5 
do not grieve and lament that we did not happen to be in 
time to see the grand mask and pageant of human life going 
on in all that period ; though we are mortified at being obliged 
to quit our stand before the rest of the procession passes. 

It may be suggested in explanation of this difference, that 10 
we know from various records and traditions what happened 
in the time of Queen Anne, or even in the reigns of the 
Assyrian monarchs; but that we have no means of ascertain- 
ing what is to happen hereafter but by awaiting the event, and 
that our eagerness and curiosity are sharpened in proportion 15 
as we are in the dark about it. This is not at all the case; 
for at that rate we should be constantly wishing to make a 
voyage of discovery to Greenland or to the moon, neither of 
which we have, in general, the least desire to do. Neither, 
in truth, have we any particular solicitude to pry into the 20 
secrets of futurity, but as a pretext for prolonging our own 
existence. It is not so much that we care to be alive a hun- 
dred or a thousand years hence, any more than to have been 
alive a hundred or a thousand years ago; but the thing lies 
here, that we would all of us wish the present moment to 25 
last for ever. We would be as we are, and would have the 
world remain just as it is, to please us. 

"The present eye catches the present object" — 

to have and to hold while it may; and abhors, on any terms, 
to h'ave it torn from us, and nothing left in its room. It is 30 
the pang of parting, the unloosing our grasp, the breaking 
asunder some strong tie, the leaving some cherished purpose 
unfulfilled, that creates the repugnance to go, and "makes 
calamity of so long life," as it often is. 

"Oh! thou strong heart! 35 

There's such a covenant 'twixt the world and thee, 
They're loth to break!" 



142 PHILOSOPHY AND REFLECTION 

The love of life, then, is an habitual attachment, not an ab- 
stract principle. Simply to be does not "content man's 
natural desire;" we long to be in a certain tune, place, and 
circumstance. We would much rather be now, "on this bank 
6 and shoal of time, " than have our choice of any future period, 
than take a slice of fifty or sixty years out of the Millennium, 
for instance. This shows that our attachment is not confined 
either to being or to well-being; but that we have an inveterate 
prejudice in favour of our immediate existence, such as it is. 

10 The mountaineer will not leave his rock, nor the savage his 

hut; neither are we willing to give up our present mode of 

life, with all its advantages and disadvantages, for any other 

that could be substituted for it. No man would, I think, 

^ exchange his existence with any other man, however fortu- 

15nate. We had as lief not be, as not be ourselves. There are 
some persons of that reach of soul that they would like to 
live two hundred and fifty years hence, to see what height of 
empire America will have grown up in that period, or whether 
the English constitution will last so long. These are points 

20 beyond me. But I confess I should like to live to see the 
downfall of the Bourbons. That is a vital question with me; 
and I should like it the better, the sooner it happens! 

No young man ever thinks he shall die. He may believe 
that others will, or assent to the doctrine that "all men are 

25 mortal" as an abstract proposition, but he is far enough from 
bringing it home to himself individually. ^ Youth, buoyant 
activity, and animal spirits hold absolute antipathy with old 
age as well as with death; nor have we, in the hey-day of life, 
any more than in the thoughtlessness of childhood, the re- 

30 motest conception how 

"This sensible warm motion can become 
A kneaded clod" — 

nor how sanguine, florid health and vigour shall "turn to 

withered, weak, and grey. " Or, if in a moment of idle specu- 

35 lation we indulge in this notion of the close of life as a theory,' 

it is amazing at what a distance it seems; what a long, 

^ "All men think all men mortal but themselves." — Young. 



ON THE FEAR OF DEATH 143 

leisurely interval there is between; what a contrast its slow 
and solemn approach affords to our present gay dreams of 
existence! We eye the farthest verge of the horizon, and 
think what a way we shall have to look back upon ere we 
arrive at our journey's end; and without our in the least sus- 5 
pecting it, the mists are at our feet, and the shadows of age 
encompass us. The two divisions of our lives have melted 
into each other; the extreme points close and meet with none 
of that romantic interval stretching out between them, that 
we had reckoned upon; and for the rich, melancholy, solemn 10 
hues of age, "the sear, the yellow leaf, " the deepening shadows 
of an autumnal evening, we only feel a dank, cold mist, en- 
circling all objects, after the spirit of youth is fled. There is 
no inducement to look forward; and what is worse, little 
interest in looking back to what has become so trite and 15 
common. The pleasures of our existence have worn them- 
selves out, are "gone into the wastes of time," or have turned 
their indifferent side to us; the pains by their repeated blows 
have worn us out, and have left us neither spirit nor inclina- 
tion to encounter them again in retrospect. We do not 20 
want to rip up old grievances, nor to renew our youth like 
the phoenix, nor to Hve our lives twice over. Once is enough. 
As the tree falls, so let it lie. Shut up the book and close the 
account once for all! 

It has been thought by some that life is like the exploring of 25 
a passage that grows narrower and darker the farther we ad- 
vance, without a possibility of ever turning back, and where 
we are stifled for want of breath at last. For myself, I do not 
complain of the greater thickness of the atmosphere as I ap- 
proach the narrow house. I felt it more, formerly,^ when the 30 
idea -alone seemed to suppress a thousand rising hopes and 
weighed upon the pulses of the blood. At present I rather 
feel a thinness and want of support, I stretch out my hand to 
some object and find none, I am too much in a world of ab- 
straction; the naked map of life is spread out before me, and 35 

1 1 remember once, in particular, having this feeling in reading 
Schiller's Don Carlos, where there is a description of death, in a de- 
gree that almost stifled me. 



144 PHILOSOPHY AND REFLECTION . 

in the emptiness and desolation I see Death coming to meet 
me. In my youth I could not behold him for the crowd of 
objects and feelings, and Hope stood always between us, 
saying, "Never mind that old fellow!" If I had lived in- 
5 deed, I should not care to die. But I do not like a contract 
of pleasure broken off unfulfilled, a marriage with joy un- 
consummated, a promise of happiness rescinded. My public 
and private hopes have been left a ruin, or remain only to 
mock me. I would wish them to be re-edified. I should 

10 like to see some prospect of good to manlcind, such as my 
life began with. I should hke to leave some sterling work 
behind me. I should like to have some friendly hand to 
consign me to the grave. On these conditions I am ready, 
if not willing, to depart. I shall then write on my tomb — 

15 Grateful and Contented! But I have thought and suffered 
too much to be willing to have thought and suffered in vain. 
In looking back, it sometimes appears to me as if I had in a 
manner slept out my life in a dream or shadow on the side of 
the hill of knowledge, where I have fed on books, on thoughts, 

20 on pictures, and only heard in half-murmurs the trampling 
of busy feet, or the noises of the throng below. Waked out 
of this dim, twilight existence, and startled with the passing 
scene, I have felt a wish to descend to the world of reali- 
ties, and join in the chase. But I fear too late, and that I 

25 had better return to my bookish chimeras and indolence 
once more! Zanetto, lascia le donne, et studia la matematica. 
I will think of it. 

It is not wonderful that the contemplation and fear of 
death become more familiar to us as we approach nearer to 

30 it; that life seems to ebb with the decay of blood and youthful 
spirits; and that as we find everything about us subject to 
chance and change, as our strength and beauty die, as our 
hopes and passions, our friends and our affections leave us, 
we begin by degrees to feel ourselves mortal! 

35 I have never seen death but once, and that was in an infant. 
It is years ago. The look was calm and placid, and the face 
was fair and firm. It was as if a waxen image had been laid 
out in the coffin, and strewed with innocent flowers. It was 



ON THE FEAR OF DEATH 145 

not like death, but more like an image of life! No breath 
moved the Ups, no pulse stirred, no sight Qr sound would enter 
those eyes or ears more. While I looked at it, I saw no pain 
was there; it seemed to smile at the short pang of life which 
was over; but I could not bear the coffin-lid to be closed — ■ 5 
it seemed to stifle me; and still as the nettles wave in a corner 
of the churchyard over his little grave, the welcome breeze 
helps to refresh me, and ease the tightness at my breast! 
An ivory or marble image, like Chantry's monument of the 
two children, is contemplated with pure dehght. Why do we 10 
not grieve and fret that the marble is not ahve, or fancy that 
it has a shortness of breath? It never was alive; and it is the 
difficulty of making the transition from life to death, the 
struggle between the two in our imagination, that confounds 
their properties painfully together, and makes us conceive 15 
that the infant that is but just dead, still wants to breathe, 
to enjoy, and look about it, and is prevented by the icy hand 
of death, locking up its faculties and benumbing its senses; 
so that, if it could, it would complain of its own hard state. 
Perhaps religious considerations reconcile the mind to this 20 
change sooner than any others, by representing the spirit 
as fled to another sphere, and leaving the body behind it. 
So in reflecting on death generally, we mix up the idea of life 
with it, and thus make it the ghastly monster it is. We 
think how we should feel, not how the dead feel. 25 

" Still from the tomb the voice of nature cries; 
Even in our ashes live their wonted fires!" 

There is an admirable passage on this subject in Tucker's 
Light of Nature Pursued, which I shall transcribe, as by much 
the best illustration I can offer of it. 30 

"The melancholy appearance of a lifeless body, the man- 
sion provided for it to inhabit, dark, cold, close, and solitary, 
are shocking to the imagination; but it is to the imagination 
only, not the understanding; for whoever consults this 
faculty will see at first glance that there is nothing dismal in 35 
all these circumstances; if the corpse were kept wrapped up 
in a warm bed, with a roasting fire in the chamber, it would 



146 PHILOSOPHY AND REFLECTION 

feel no comfortable warmth therefrom; were store of tapers 
lighted up as soon as day shuts in, it would see no objects to 
divert it; were it left at large it would have no liberty, nor if 
surrounded with company would be cheered thereby; neither 
5 are the distorted features expressions of pain, uneasiness, or 
distress. This everyone knows, and will readily allow upon 
being suggested, yet still cannot behold, nor even cast a 
thought upon those objects without shuddering; for knowing 
that a living person must suffer grievously under such ap- 

lOpearances, they become habitually formidable to the mind, 
and strike a mechanical horror, which is increased by the 
customs of the world around us." 

There is usually one pang added voluntarily and unneces- 
sarily to the fear of death, by our affecting to compassionate 

15 the loss which others will have in us. If that were all, we 
might reasonably set our minds at rest. The pathetic exhorta- 
tion on country tombstones, ''Grieve not for me, my wife and 
children dear," etc., is for the most part speedily followed to 
the letter. We do not leave so great a void in society as we 

20 are inclined to imagine, partly to magnify our own importance, 
and partly to console ourselves by sympathy. Even in the 
same family the gap is not so great; the wound closes up 
sooner than we should expect. Nay, our room is not in- 
frequently thought better than our company. People walk 

25 along the streets the day after our deaths just as they did 
before, and the crowd is not diminished. While we were 
living, the world seemed in a manner to exist only for us, 
for our delight and amusement, because it contributed to 
them. But our hearts cease to beat, and it goes on as usual, 

30 and thinks no more about us than it did in our lifetime. The 
million are devoid of sentiment, and care as little for you or me 
as if we belonged to the moon. We live the week over in the 
Sunday's paper, or are decently interred in some obituary at 
the month's end! It is not surprising that we are forgotten so 

35 soon after we quit this mortal stage : we are scarcely noticed, 
while we are on it. It is not merely that our names are not 
known in China — they have hardly been heard of in the 
next street. We are hand and glove with the universe, and 



ON THE FEA.R OF DEJATH 147 

think the obligation is mutual. This is an evident fallacy. 
If this, however, does not trouble us now, it will not hereafter. 
A handful of dust can have no quarrel to pick with its neigh- 
hours, or complaint to make against Providence, and might 
well exclaim, if it had but an understanding and a tongue, 5 
"Go thy ways, old world, swing round in blue ether, voluble 
to every age, you and 1 shall no more jostle!" 

It is amazing how soon the rich and titled, and even some 
of those who have wielded great political power, are forgotten. 

"A little rule, a little sway. 10 

Is all the great and mighty have 
Betwixt the cradle and the grave" — 

and, after its short date, they hardly leave a name behind 
them. "A great man's memory may, at the common rate, 
survive him half a year. " His heirs and successors take his 15 
titles, his power, and his wealth —all that made him con- 
siderable or courted by others; and he has left nothing else 
behind him either to delight or benefit the world. Posterity 
are not by any means so disinterested as they are supposed to 
be. They give their gratitude and admiration only in return 20 
for benefits conferred. They cherish the memory of those to 
whom they are indebted for instruction and delight; and 
they cherish it just in proportion to the instruction and 
delight they are conscious they receive. The sentiment of 
admiration springs immediately from this ground, and can- 25 
not be otherwise than well founded.^ 

The effeminate clinging to life as such, as a general or ab- 
stract idea, is the effect of a highly civilised and artificial 
state of society. Men formerly plunged into all the vicis- 

1 It has been usual to raise a very unjust clamour against the enor- 30 
mous salaries of public singers, actors, and so on. This matter seems 
reducible to a moral equation. They are paid out ot money raised 
by voluntary contributions in the strictest sense; and if they did 
not bring certain sums into the treasury, the managers would not 
engage them. These sums are exactly in proportion to the number 35 
of individuals to whom their performance gives an extraordinary 
degree of pleasure. The talents of a singer, actor, etc , are therefore 
worth just as much as they will fetch. 



148 PHILOSOPHY AND REFLECTION 

situdes and dangers of war, or staked their all upon a single 
die, or some one passion, which if they could not have grati- 
fied, life became a burthen to them — now our strongest pas- 
sion is to think, our chief amusement is to read new plays, 

5 new poems, new novels, and this we may do at our leisure, 
in perfect security, ad infinitum. If we look into the old his- 
tories and romances, before the helles lettres neutralised 
human affairs and reduced passion to a state of mental 
equivocation, we find the heroes and heroines not setting 

10 their lives ''at a pin's fee," but rather courting opportunities 
of throwing them away in very wantonness of spirit. They 
raise their fondness for some favourite pursuit to its height, 
to a pitch of madness, and think no price too dear to pay for 
its full gratification. Everything else is dross. They go to 

15 death as to a bridal bed, and sacrifice themselves or others 
without remorse at the shrine of love, of honour, of religion, 
or any other prevailmg feeling. Romeo runs his ''seasick, 
weary bark" upon the rocks of death, the instant he finds him- 
self deprived of his Juliet; and she clasps his neck in their last 

20 agonies, and follows him to the same fatal shore. One strong 
idea takes possession of the mind and overrules every other; 
and even life itself, joyless without that, becomes an object 
of indifference or loathing. There is at least more of imagi- 
nation in such a state of things, more vigour of feeling and 

25 promptitude to act than in our lingering, languid, protracted 
attachment to life for its own poor sake. It is, perhaps, also 
better, as well as more heroical, to strike at some daring 
or darling object, and if we fail in that, to take the conse- 
quences manfuUy, than to renew the lease of a tedious, 

30 spiritless, charmless existence, merely (as Pierre says) "to 
lose it afterwards in some vile brawl" for some worthless 
object. Was there not a spirit of martyrdom as well as a 
spice of the reckless energy of barbarism in this bold defiance 
of death? Had not religion something to do with it; the 

35 implicit belief in a future life, which rendered this of less 
value, and embodied something beyond it to the imagination; 
so that the rough soldier, the infatuated lover, the valorous 
knight, etc., could afford to throw away the present venture, 



ON THE FEAR OF DEATH 149 

and take a leap into the arms of futurity, which the modern 
sceptic shrinks back from, with all his boasted reason and 
vain philosophy, weaker than a woman! I cannot help 
thinking so myself; but I have endeavoured to explain this 
point before, and will not enlarge further on it here. 5 

A life of action and danger moderates the dread of death. 
It not only gives us fortitude to bear pain, but teaches us at 
every step the precarious tenure on which we hold our present 
being. Sedentary and studious men are the most appre- 
hensive on this score. Dr. Johnson was an instance in point. 10 
A few years seemed to him soon over, compared with those 
sweeping contemplations on time and infinity with which he 
had been used to pose hhnself. In the still life of a man of 
letters, there was no obvious reason for a change. He might 
sit in an armchair and pour out cups of tea to all eternity. 15 
Would it had been possible for him to do so! The most 
rational cure after all for the inordinate fear of death is to 
set a just value on life. If we merely wish to continue on 
the scene to indulge our headstrong humours and tormenting 
passions, we had better begone at once; and if we only cherish 20 
a fondness for existence according to the good we derive from 
it, the pang we feel at parting with it wiU not be very severe! 



ON THE SPIRIT OF OBLIGATIONS 

The two rarest things to be met with are good sense and 
good nature. For one man who judges right, there are twenty 
who can say good things; as there are numbers who will 
serve you or do friendly actions, for one who really wishes 

5 you well. It has been said, and often repeated, that ''mere 
good nature is a fool:" but I think that the dearth of sound 
sense, for the most part, proceeds from the want of a real, 
unaffected interest in things, except as they react upon our- 
selves; or from a neglect of the maxim of that good old philan- 

10 thropist, who said, "Nihil humani a me alienum puto. " The 
narrowness of the heart warps the understanding, and makes 
us weigh objects in the scale of our self-love, instead of those 
of truth and justice. We consider not the merits of the case, 
or what is due to others, but the manner in which our own 

15 credit or consequence will be affected; and adapt our opinions 
and conduct to the last of these rather than to the first. The 
judgment is seldom wrong where the feelings are right; 
and they generally are so, provided they are warm and sin- 
cere. He who intends others well, is likely to advise them 

20 for the best; he who has any cause at heart, seldom ruins 
it by his unprudence. Those who play the public or their 
friends slippery tricks, have in secret no objection to betray 
them. 

One finds out the folly and malice of mankind by the im- 

25 pertinence of friends — by their professions of service and 
tenders of advice — by their fears for your reputation and 
anticipation of what the world may say of you; by which 
means they suggest objections to your enemies, and at the 
same time absolve themselves from the task of justifymg 

30 your errors, by having warned you of the consequences — 
by the care with which they tell ill news, and conceal from 
you any flattering circumstance — by their dread of your 

150 



ON THE SPIRIT OF OBLIGATIONS 151 

engaging in any creditable attempt, and mortification, if you 
succeed — by the difficulties and hindrances they throw in 
your way — by their satisfaction when you happen to make a 
slip or get into a scrape, and their determination to tie your 
hands behind you, lest you should get out of it — by their 5 
panic-terrors at your entering into a vindication of yourself, 
lest in the course of it you should call upon them for a certi- 
ficate to your character — by their luke-warmness in defend- 
ing, by their readiness in betraying you — by the high stand- 
ard by which they try you, and to which you can hardly ever 10 
come up — by their forwardness to partake your triumphs, 
by their backwardness to share your disgrace — by their 
acknowledgment of your errors out of candoiu", and suppres-. 
sion of your good qualities out of envy — by their not contra- 
dicting, or by their joining in the cry against you, lest they 15 
too should become objects of the same abuse — by their 
playing the game into your adversaries' hands, by always 
letting their imaginations take part with their cowardice, 
their vanity, and selfishness against you; and thus realising 
or hastening all the iU consequences they affect to deplore, 20 
by spreading that very spirit of distrust, obloquy, and hatred 
which they predict will be excited against you! 

In all these pretended demonstrations of an over-anxiety 
for our welfare, we may detect a great deal of spite and ill- 
nature lurking under the disguise of a friendly and officious 25 
zeal. It is wonderful how much love of mischief and rank- 
ling spleen lies at the bottom of the human heart, and how a 
constant supply of gall seems as necessary to the health and 
activity of the mind as of the body. Yet perhaps it ought 
not to excite much surprise that this gnawing, morbid, 30 
acrimonious temper should produce the effects it does, when, 
if it does not vent itself on others, it preys upon its own com- 
forts, and makes us see the worst side of everything, even 
as it regards our own prospects and tranquillity. It is the 
not being comfortable in ourselves, that makes us seek to 35 
render other people uncomfortable. A person of this char- 
acter will advise you against a prosecution for a libel, and 
shake his head at your attempting to shield yourself from a 



152 PHILOSOPHY AND REFLECTION 

shower of calumny — it is not that he is afraid you will be 
nonsuited, but that you will gain a verdict! They caution 
you against provoking hostility, in order that you may submit 
to indignity. They say that "if you publish a certain work 
Sit will be your ruin" — hoping that it will, and by their 
tragical denunciations bringing about this very event as far 
as it lies in their power, or at any rate, enjoying a premature 
triumph over you in the meantime. What I would say to 
any friend who may be disposed to foretell a general outcry 

10 against any work of mine, would be to request him to judge 
and speak of it for himself, as he tliinks it deserves — and not 
by his overweening scruples and qualms of conscience on my 
account, to afford those very persons whose hostility he dep- 
recates the cue they are to give to party prejudice, and which 

15 they may justify by his authority. 

Suppose you are to give lectures at a public institution, 
these friends and well-wishers hope ''you'll be turned out — 
if you preserve your principles, they are sure you will." Is 
it that your consistency gives them any concern? No, but 

20 they are uneasy at your gaining a chance of a little popularity 
— they do not like this new feather in your cap, they wish 
to see it struck out, for the sake of your character — and when 
this was once the case, it would be an additional relief to them 
to see your character following the same road the next day. 

25 The exercise of their bile seems to be the sole employment and 
gratification of such people. They deal in the miseries of 
human life. They are always either hearing or foreboding 
some new grievance. They cannot contain their satisfaction, 
if you tell them any mortification or cross-accident that has 

30 happened to yourself; and if you complain of their want of 
sympathy, they laugh in your face. This would be unac- 
countable, but for the spirit of perversity and contradiction 
implanted in human nature. If things go right, there is 
nothing to be done — these active-minded persons grow 

35 restless, dull, vapid, — life is a sleep, a sort of euthanasia — 
let them go wrong, and all is well again; they are once more 
on the alert, have something to pester themselves and other 
people about; may wrangle on, and "make mouths at the 



ON THE SPIRIT OF OBLIGATIONS 153 

invisible event!" Luckily, there is no want of materials for 
this disposition to work upon, there is plenty of grist for the 
mill. If you fall in love, they tell you (by the way of conso- 
lation) it is a pity that you did not fall downstairs and frac- 
ture a limb — it would be a relief to your mind, and shew you 5 
your folly. So they would reform the world. The class of 
persons I speak of are almost uniform grumblers and croakers 
against governments, and it must be confessed, governments 
are of great service in fostering their humours. "Born 
for their use, they live but to oblige them. " While kings are 10 
left free to exercise their proper functions, and poet laureates 
make out their Mittimus to Heaven without a warrant, they 
will never stop the mouths of the censorious by changing 
their dispositions; the juices of faction will ferment, and the 
secretions of the state be duly performed! I do not mind 15 
when a character of this sort meets a Minister of State like an 
east wind round a corner, and gives him an ague fit; but 
should he meddle with me? Why should he tell me I write 
too much, and say that I should gain reputation if I could 
contrive to starve for a twelvemonth? Or if I apply to him for 20 
a loan of fifty pounds for present necessity, send me word 
back that he has too much regard for me to comply with 
my request? It is unhandsome irony. It is not friendly, 
His not pardonable.! 

I like real good nature and good will better than I do any 25 
offers of patronage or plausible rules for my conduct in life. 
I may suspect the soundness of the last, and I may not be 
quite sure of the motives of the first. People complain of 
ingratitude for benefits, and of the neglect of wholesome ad- 
vice. In the first place, we pay little attention to advice, 30 
because we are seldom thought of in it. The person who 
gives it either contents himself to lay down {ex cathedrd) 
certain vague, general maxims, and "wise saws," which we 
knew before; or, instead of considering what we ought to do, 
recommends what he himself would do. He merely substi-35 
tutes his own will, caprice, and prejudices for ours, and ex- 
pects us to be guided by them. Instead of changing places 

1 This circumstance did not happen to me, but to aii acquaintance. 



154 PHILOSOPHY AND REFLECTION 

with us (to see what is best to be done in the given circum- 
stances), he insists on our looking at the question from his 
point of view, and acting in such a manner as to please him. 
This is not at all reasonable; for one man's meat, according 
6 to the old adage, is another man's poison. And it is not 
strange, that starting from such opposite premises, we should 
seldom jump in a conclusion, and that the art of giving and 
taking advice is little better than a game at cross-purposes. 
I have observed that those who are the most inclined to 

10 assist others are the least forward or peremptory with their 
advice; for having our interest really at heart, they consider 
what can, rather than what cannot be done, and aid our 
views and endeavour to avert ill consequences by moderating 
our impatience and allaying irritations, instead of thwarting 

15 our main design, which only tends to make us more extrava- 
gant and violent than ever. In the second place, benefits are 
often conferred out of ostentation or pride, rather than from 
true regard; and the person obliged is too apt to perceive this. 
People who are fond of appearing in the light of patrons will 

20 perhaps go through fire and water to serve you, who yet would 
be sorry to find you no longer wanted their assistance, and 
whose friendship cools and their good will slackens, as you are 
relieved of their active zeal from the necessity of being further 
beholden to it. Compassion and generosity are their favorite 

25 virtues; and they countenance you, as you afford them op- 
portunities for exercising them. The instant you can go alone, 
you are discarded as unfit for their purpose. 

This is something more than mere good nature or humanity. 
A thoroughly good-natured man, a real friend, is one who is 

30 pleased at our good fortune, as well as prompt to seize every 
occasion of relieving our distress. We apportion our grati- 
tude accordingly. We are thankful for good will rather 
than for services, for the motive rather than for the quantum 
of favour received — a kind word or look is never forgotten, 

35 while we cancel prouder and weightier obligations; and those 
who esteem us or evince a partiality to us are those whom we 
still consider as our best friends. Nay, so strong is this 
feeUng, that we extend it even to those counterfeits in friend- 



ON THE SPIRIT OF OBLIGATIONS 155 

ship, flatterers and sycophants. Our self-love, rather than 
our self-interest, is the master key to our affections. 

I am not convinced that those are always the best-natured 
or the best-conditioned men, who busy themselves most with 
the distresses of their fellow creatures. I do not know that 5 
those whose names stand at the head of all subscriptions to 
charitable institutions, and who are perpetual stewards of 
dinners and meetings to encourage and promote the estab- 
hshment of asylums for the relief of the blind, the halt, and 
the orphan poor, are persons fitted with the best tempers or 10 
the kindliest feelings. I do not dispute their virtue; I 
doubt their sensibility. I am not here speaking of those who 
make a trade of the profession of humanity, or set their names 
down out of mere idle parade and vanity. I mean those who 
really enter into the details and drudgery of this sort of serv- 15 
ice con amove, and who delight in surveying and in diminish- 
ing the amount of human misery. I conceive it possible 
that a person who is going to pour oil and balm into the 
wounds of afflicted humanity, at a meeting of the Western 
Dispensary, by handsome speeches and by a handsome 20 
donation (not grudgingly given) may be thrown into a fit of 
rage that very morning, by having his toast too much but- 
tered, may quarrel with the innocent prattle and amujements 
of his children, cry "Pish!" at every observation his wife 
utters, and scarcely feel a moment's comfort at any period 25 
of his fife, except when he hears of some case of pressing 
distress that calls for his immediate interference, and draws* 
off his attention from his own situation and feelings by the 
act of alleviating it. Those martyrs to the cause of humanity, 
in short, who run the gauntlet of the whole catalogue of un-30 
heard-of crimes and afflicting casualties, who ransack prisons, 
and plunge into lazar-houses and slave-ships as their daily 
amusement and highest luxury, must generally, I think, 
(though not always), be prompted to the arduous task by 
uneasy feelings of their own, and supported through it by 35 
iron nerves. Their fortitude must be equal to their pity. 
I do not think Mr. Wilberforce a case in point in this argu- 
ment. He is evidently a dehcately framed, nervous, sensi- 



156 PHILOSOPHY AND REFLECTION 

tive man. I should suppose him to be a kind and afifection- 
ately disposed person in all the relations of life. His weakness 
is too quick a sense of reputation, a desire to have the good 
word of all men, a tendency to truckle to power and fawn on 
6 opinion. But there are some of these philanthropists that a 
physiognomist has hard work to believe in. They seem made 
of pasteboard, they look like mere machines; their benevo- 
lence may be said to go on rollers, and they are screwed to the 
sticking-place by the wheels and pulleys of humanity. 

10 " If to their share some splendid virtues fall, 

Look in their face, and you forget them all." 

They appear so much the creatures of the head and so little 
of the heart, they are so cold, so lifeless, so mechanical, so 
much governed by calculation, and so little by impulse, that 

15 it seems the toss-up of a halfpenny, the mere turn of a feather, 
whether such people should become a Granville Sharp, or a 
Hubert in King John, a Howard, or a Sir Hudson Lowe! 

"Charity covers a multitude of sins." Wherever it is, 
there nothing can be wanting; wherever it is not, all else is 

20 vain. "The meanest peasant on the bleakest mountain is 

not without a portion of it (says Sterne), he finds the lacerated 

lamb of another's flock," etc. (See the passage in the 

Sentimental Journey.) I do not think education or circum- 

. stances can ever entirely eradicate this principle. Some pro- 

25fessions may be supposed to blunt it, but it is perhaps more 
in appearance than in reality. Butchers are not allowed to 
■sit on a jury for life and death; but probably this is a preju- 
dice; if they have the destructive organ in an unusual degree 
of expansion, they vent their sanguinary inclinations on the 

30 brute creation; and besides, they look too jolly, rosy, and in 
good case (they and their wives), to harbour much cruelty in 
their dispositions. Neither would I swear that a man was 
humane, merely for abstaining from animal food. A tiger 
would not be a lamb, though it fed on milk. Surgeons are in 

35 general thought to be unfeeling, and steeled by custom to the 
sufferings of humanity. They may be so, as far as relates 
to broken bones and bruises, but not to other things. Nor 



ON THE SPIRIT OF OBLIGATIONS 157 

are they necessarily so in their profession; for we find dif- 
ferent degrees of callous insensibiUty in different individuals. 
Some practitioners have an evident dehght in alarming the 
apprehensions and cutting off the limbs of their patients; 
these would have been ill-natured men in any situation in 5 
life, and merely make an excuse of then- profession to in- 
dulge their natural ill-humour and brutality of temper. A 
surgeon who is fond of giving pain to those who consult him 
will not spare the feeUngs of his neighbours in other respects; 
has a tendency to probe other wounds besides those of the 10 
body; and is altogether a harsh and disagreeable character. 
A Jack-Ketch may be known to tie the fatal noose with trem- 
bling fingers; or a jailor may have a heart softer than the walls 
of his prison. There have been instances of highwaymen who 
were proverbially gentlemen. I have seen a Bow-street 15 
officer 1 (not but that the transition is ungracious and unjust) 
reading Racine, and following the recitation of Tahna at 
the door of a room which he was sent to guard. Police- 
magistrates, from the scenes they have to witness and the 
characters they come ui contact with, may be supposed to lose 20 
the fine edge of dehcacy and sensibiUty; yet they are not all 
alike, but differ, as one star differs from another in magni- 
tude. One is as remarkable for mildness and lenity, as an- 
other is notorious for harshness and severity. The late Mr. 
Justice Fielding was a member of this profession, which 25 
(however little accordant with his own feehngs) he made 
pleasant to those of others. He generally sent away the dis- 
putants in that unruly region, where he presided, tolerably 
satisfied. I have often seen him, escaped from the noisy, 
repulsive scene, sunning hunself in the adjoining walks of 30 
St. James's Park, and with mild aspect, and lofty but un- 
wieldy mien, eyeing the verdant glades and lengthening 
vistas where perhaps his childhood loitered. He had a 
strong resemblance to his father, the immortal author of 
Tom Jones. I never passed him that I did not take off my 35 
hat to him in spirit. I could not help thinkmg of Parson 
Adams, of Booth and Amelia. I seemed to belong, by intel- 
^ Lavender. 



158 PHILOSOPHY AND REFLECTION 

lectual adoption, to the same family, and would willingly have 
acknowledged my obligation to the father to the son. He had 
something of the air of Colonel Bath. When young, he had 
very excellent prospects in the law, but neglected a brief 
5 sent him by the Attorney-General, in order to attend a glee- 
club, for wliich he had engaged to furnish a rondeau. This 
spoiled his fortune. A man whose object is to please himself, 
or to keep his word to his friends, is the last man to thrive at 
court. Yet he looked serene and smiling to his latest breath, 

10 conscious of the goodness of his own heart, and of not having 
sullied a name that had thrown a light upon humanity! 

There are different modes of obligation, and different 
avenues to our gratitude and favour. A man may lend his 
countenance who will not part with his money, and open his 

15 mind to us who will not draw out his purse. How many ways 
are there, in which our peace may be assailed, besides actual 
want! How many comforts do we stand in need of, besides 
meat and drink and clothing! Is it nothing to "administer 
to a mind diseased" — to heal a wounded spirit? After all 

20 other difficulties are removed, we still want some one to bear 
with our infirmities, to impart our confidence to, to encourage 
us in our hobbies (nay, to get up and ride behind us) and to 
like us with all our faults. True friendship is self-love at 
second-hand; where, as in a flaming mirror, we may see our 

25 errors softened, and where we may fancy our opinion of our- 
selves confirmed by an impartial and faithful witness. He 
(of all the world) creeps the closest in our bosoms, into our 
favour and esteem, who thinks of us most nearly as we do of 
ourselves. Such a one is indeed the pattern of a friend, an- 

30 other self — and our gratitude for the blessing is as sincere, 
as it is hollow in most other cases! This is one reason why 
entire friendship is scarcely to be found, except in love. 
There is a hardness and a severity in our judgments of one 
another; the spirit of competition also intervenes, unless 

35 where there is too great an inequality of pretension or dif- 
ference of taste to admit of mutual S3mipathy and respect; 
but a woman's vanity is interested in making the object of 
her choice the God of her idolatry; and in the intercourse 



ON THE SPIRIT OF OBLIGATIONS 159 

with the sex, there is tlie finest reflection of opposite and 
answering excellences imaginable! It is in the highest spirit 
of the rehgion of love in the female breast, that Lord Byron 
has put that beautiful apostrophe into the mouth of Anah, 
in speaking of her angel-lover (alas! are not the sons of men 5 
too, when they are deified in the hearts of women, only "a 
little lower than the angels?") 

"And when I think that his immortal wings 
Shall one day hover o'er the sepulchre 

Of the poor child of clay, that so adored him, 10 

As He adored the Highest, death becomes 
Less terrible!" 

This is a dangerous string, which I ought never to touch 
upon; but the shattered chords vibrate of themselves! 

The difference of age, of situation in life, and an absence of 15 
all consideration of business have, I apprehend, something of 
the same effect in producing a refined and abstracted friend- 
ship. The person whose doors I enter with most pleasure 
and quit with most regret, never did me the smallest favour. 
I once did him an uncalled-for service, and we nearly quar-20 
relied about it. If I were in the utmost distress, I should just 
as soon think of asking his assistance as of stopping a person 
on the highway. Practical benevolence is not his forte. He 
leaves the profession of that to others. His habits, his theory 
are against it as idle and vulgar. His hand is closed, but 25 
what of that? His eye is ever open, and reflects the uni- 
verse; his silver accents, beautiful, venerable as his silver 
hairs, but not scanted, flow as a river. I never ate or drank 
in his house; nor do I know or care how the flies or spiders 
fare in it, or whether a mouse can get a living. But I know 30 
that I can get there what I can get nowhere else — a welcome, 
as if one was expected to drop in just at that moment, a total 
absence of all respect of persons and of airs of self-consequence, 
endless topics of discourse, refined thoughts, made more 
striking by ease and simplicity of manner — the husk, the 35 
shell of humanity is left at the door, and the spirit, mellowed 
by time, resides within! All you have to do is to sit and 
listen; and it is like hearing one of Titian's faces speak. To 



160 PHILOSOPHY AND REFLECTION 

think of wordly matters is a profanation, like that of the 
money-changers in the Temple; or it is to regard the bread 
and wine of the Sacrament with carnal eyes. We enter the 
enchanter's cell, and converse with the divine inhabitant. 
5 To have this privilege always at hand, and to be circled by 
that spell whenever we choose, with an "Enter Sessami/' is 
better than sitting at the lower end of the tables of the great, 
than eating awkwardly from gold plate, than drinking ful- 
some toasts, or being thanldul for gross favours, and gross 

10 insults! 

Few things tend more to alienate friendship than a want of 
punctuality in our engagements. I have known the breach 
of a promise to dine or sup break up more than one intimacy. 
A disappointment of this kind rankles in the mind — it 

15 cuts up our pleasures (those rare events in human life, which 
ought not to be wantonly sported with!) — it not only de- 
prives us of the expected gratification, but it renders us unfit 
for, and out of humour with, every other; it makes us think 
our society not worth having, which is not the way to make us 

20 delighted with our own thoughts; it lessens our self-esteem, 
and destroys our confidence in others; and having leisure on 
our hands (by being thus left alone) and sufficient provocation 
withal, we employ it in ripping up the faults of the acquain- 
tance who has played us this slippery trick, and in forming 

25 resolutions to pick a quarrel with him the very first op- 
portunity we can find. I myself once declined an invitation 
to meet Talma, who was an admirer of Shakespeare, and who 
idoUsed Buonaparte, to keep an appointment with a person 
who had forgot it! One great art of women, who pretend to 

30 manage their husbands and keep them to themselves, is to 
contrive some excuse for breaking engagements with friends 
for whom they entertain any respect, or who are likely to 
have any influence over them. 

There is, however, a class of persons who have a particular 

35 satisfaction in falsifying your expectations of pleasure in their 
society, who make appointments for no other ostensible pur- 
pose than not to keep them; who think their ill-behaviour gives 
them an air of superiority over you, instead of placing them 



ON THE SPIRIT OF OBLIGATIONS 161 

at your mercy; and who, in fact, in all their overtures of 
condescending kindness towards you, treat you exactly as if 
there was no such person in the world. Friendship is with 
them a mono-drama, in which they play the principal and sole 
part. They must needs be very imposing or amusing charac- 5 
ters to surround themselves with a circle of friends, who find 
that they are to be mere cyphers. The egotism would in 
such instances be offensive and intolerable, if its very excess 
did not render it entertaining. Some individuals carry this 
hard, unprincipled, reckless unconsciousness of everything but 10 
themselves and their own purposes to such a pitch, that they 
may be compared to automata, whom you never expect to 
consult your feeUngs or alter their movements out of com- 
plaisance to others. They are wound up to a certain point, ' 
by an internal machinery which you do not very well com- 15 
prehend; but if they perform their accustomed evolutions 
so as to excite your wonder or laughter, it is all very well, 
you do not quarrel with them, but look on at the pantomine 
of friendship while it lasts or is agreeable. 

There are (I may add here) a happy few, whose manner is 20 
so engaging and dehghtful, that injure you how they will, 
they cannot offend you. They rob, ruin, ridicule you, and 
you cannot finl in your heart to say a word against them. 
The late Mr. Sheridan was a man of this kind. He could 
not make enemies. If anyone came to request the repay- 25 
ment of a loan from him, he borrowed more. A cordial 
shake of his hand was a receipt in full for all d mands. He 
could "coin his smile for drachma ," cancelled bonds with 
bon mots, and gave jokes in discharge of a bfll. A friend of his 
said,. "If I pull off my hat to him in the street, it costs me 30 
fifty pounds, and if he speaks to me, it's a hundred!" 

Only one other reflection occurs to me on this subject. 
I used to think better of the world than I do. I thought its 
great fault, its original sin, was barbarous ignorance and 
want, which would be cured by the diffusion of civilisation 35 
and letters. But I find (or fancy I do) that as selfishness is 
the vice of unlettered periods and nations, envy is the bane 
of more refined and intellectual ones. Vanity springs out of 



162 PHILOSOPHY AND REFLECTION 

the grave of- sordid self-interest. Men were formerly ready 
to cut one another's throats about the gross means of sub- 
sistence, and now they are ready to do it about reputation. 
The worst is, you are no better off if you fail than if you 

5 succeed. You are despised if you do not excel others, and 
hated if you do. Abuse or praise equally weans your friends 
from you. We cannot bear eminence in our own department 
or pursuit, and think it an impertinence in any other. In- 
stead of being delighted with the proofs of excellence and the 

10 admiration paid to it, we are mortified with it, thrive only by 
the defeat of others, and live on the carcass of mangled reputa- 
tion. By being tried by an ideal standard of vanity and affect- 
ation, real objects and common people become odious or 
insipid. Instead of being raised, all is prostituted, degraded, 

15 vile. Everything is reduced to this feverish, importunate, 
harassing state. I'm heartily sick of it, and I'm sure I have 
reason if anyone has. 



ON THE FEELING OF IMMORTALITY 
IN YOUTH 

"Life is a pure flame, and we live by an invisible sun within us." 

— Sir Thomas Browne. 

No young man believes he shall ever die. It was a sa}^- 
ing of my brother's, and a fine one. There is a feeling of 
Eternity in youth, which makes us amends for everything. 
To be young is to be as one of the Immortal Gods. One half 5 
of time indeed is flown — the other half remains in store for 
us with all its countless treasures; for there is no line drawn, 
and we see no limit to our hopes and wishes. We make the 
coming age our own. 

"The vast, the unbounded prospect lies before us." 10 

Death, old age, are words without a meaning, that pass by 
us like the idle air which we regard not. Others may have 
undergone, or may still be liable to them — we "bear a 
charmed life," which laughs to scorn all such sickly fancies. 
As in setting out on a delightful journey, we strain our eager 15 
gaze forward — 

"Bidding the lovely scenes at distance hail," 

and see no end to the landscape, new objects presenting them- 
selves as we advance; so, in the commencement of life, we set 
no bounds to our inclinations, nor to the unrestricted oppor- 20 
tunities of gratifying them. We have as yet found no ob- 
stacle, no disposition to flag; and it seems that we can go on 
so forever. We look round in a new world, full of life, and 
motion, and ceaseless progress; and feel in ourselves all the 
vigour and spirit to keep pace with it, and do not foresee 25 
from any present symptoms how we shall be left behind in 
the natural course of things, decline into old age, and drop 
into the grave. It is the simplicity, and as it were abstracted- 
\ 163 



164 PHILOSOPHY AND REFLECTION 

ness of our feelings in youth, that (so to speak) identifies us 
with nature, and (our experience being shght and our passions 
strong) deludes us into a belief of being immortal like it. 
Our short-lived connection with existence, we fondly flatter 
5 ourselves, is an indissoluble and lasting union — a honey- 
moon that knows neither coldness, jar, nor separation. As 
infants smile and sleep, we are rocked in the cradle of our 
wayward fancies, and lulled into security by the roar of the 
universe around us — we quaff the cup of life with eager haste 

10 without draining it, instead of which it only overflows the 
more — objects press around us, filling the mind with their 
magnitude and with the throng of desires that wait upon 
them, so that we have no room for the thoughts of death. 
From the plenitude of our being we cannot change all at once 

15 to dust and ashes, we cannot imagine ''this sensible, warm 
motion, to become a kneaded clod" — we are too much daz- 
zled by the brightness of the waking dream around us to look 
into the darkness of the tomb. We no more see our end than 
our beginning : the one is lost in oblivion and vacancy, as the 

20 other is hid from us by the crowd and hurry of approaching 
events. Or the grim shadow is seen lingering in the horizon, 
which we are doomed never to overtake, or whose last, faint, 
glimmering outline touches upon Heaven and translates us to 
the skies! Nor would the hold that life has taken of us permit 

25 us to detach our thoughts from the present objects and pur- 
suits, even if we would. What is there more opposed to 
health, than sickness; to strength and beauty, than decay and 
dissolution; to the active search of knowledge, than mere 
oblivion? Or is there none of the usual advantage to bar the 

30 approach of Death, and mock his idle threats; Hope supplies 
their place, and draws a veil over the abrupt termination of 
all our cherished schemes. While the spirit of youth remains 
unimpaired, ere the "wine of life is drank up," we are like 
people intoxicated or in a fever, who are hurried away by the 

35 violence of their own sensations; it is only as present objects 
begin to pall upon the sense, as we have been disappointed in 
our favourite pursuits, cut off from our closest ties, that 
passion loosens its hold upon the breast, that we by degrees 



THE FEELING OF IMMORTALITY IN YOUTH 165 

become weaned from the world, and allow ourselves to con- 
template, ''as in a glass, darkly," the possibility of parting 
with it for good. The example of others, the voice of ex- 
perience, has no effect upon us whatever. Casualties we must 
avoid: the slow and deliberate advances of age we can play 5 
at hide-and-seek with. We think ourselves too lusty and too 
nimble for that blear-eyed decrepid old gentleman to catch us. 
Like the foolish fat scullion, in Sterne, when she hears that 
Master Bobby is dead, our only reflection is, "So am not I!" 
The idea of death, instead of staggering our confidence, rather 10 
seems to strengthen and enhance our possession and our en- 
joyment of life. Others may fall around like leaves, or be 
mowed down like flowers by the scythe of Time: these are 
but tropes and figures to the unreflecting ears and overween- 
ing presumption of youth. It is not tiU we see the flowers of 15 
Love, Hope, and Joy, withering around us, and our own pleas- 
ures cut up by the roots, that we bring the moral home to 
ourselves, that we abate something of the wanton extrava- 
gance of our pretensions, or that the emptiness and dreariness 
of the prospect before us reconciles us to the stillness of the 20 
grave! 

"Life! thou strange thing, thou hast a power to feel 
Thou art, and to perceive that others are. "^ 

Well might the poet begin his indignant invective against 
an art, whose professed object is its destruction, with this 25 
animated apostrophe to life. Life is indeed a strange gift, 
and its privileges are most miraculous. Nor is it singular 
that when the splendid boon is first granted us, our gratitude, 
our admiration, and our delight should prevent us from re- 
flectijig on our own nothingness, or from thinking it will ever 30 
be recalled. Our first and strongest impressions are taken 
from the mighty scene that is opened to us, and we very inno- 
cently transfer its durability as well as magnificence to our- 
selves. So newly found, we cannot make up our minds to 
parting with it yet and at least put off that consideration to 35 
an indefinite term. Like a clown at a fair, we are full of amaze- 

' Fawcett's Art of War, a poem, 1794. 



166 PHILOSOPHY AND REFLECTION 

ment and rapture, and have no thoughts of going home, or 
that it will soon be night. We know our existence only from 
external objects, and we measure it by them. We can never 
be satisfied with gazing; and nature will still want us to look 
5 on and applaud. Otherwise, the sumptuous entertainment, 
"the feast of reason and the flow of soul, " to which they were 
invited, seems httle better than mockery and a cruel insult. 
We do not go from a play till the scene is ended, and the 
lights are ready to be extinguished. But the fair face of 

10 things still shines on ; shall we be called away before the cur- 
tain falls, or ere we have scarce had a glimpse of what is 
going on? Like children, our step-mother Nature holds us 
up to see the raree-show of the universe; and then, as if life 
were a burthen to support, lets us instantly down again. Yet 

15 in that short interval, what ''brave sublunary things" does 

not the spectacle unfold; like a bubble, at one minute re- 

■^ fleeting the universe, and the next, shook to air! — To see 

the golden sun and the azure sky, the outstretched ocean, to 

walk upon the green earth, and to be lord of a thousand crea- 

20 tures, to look down the giddy precipices or over the distant 
flowery vales, to see the world spread out under one's finger 
in a map, to bring the stars near, to view the smallest insects 
in a microscope, to read history, and witness the revolutions 
of empires and the succession of generations, to hear of the 

25 glory of Sidon and Tyre, of Babylon and Susa, as of a faded 
pageant, and to say all these were, and are now nothing, to 
think that we exist in such a point of time, and in such a 
corner of space, to be at once spectators and a part of the 
moving scene, to watch the return of the seasons, of spring 

30 and autumn, to hear 

" The stockdove plain amid the forest deep, 
That drowsy rustles to the sighing gale" — 

to traverse desert wilderness, to listen to the midnight choir, 
to visit lighted halls, or plunge into the dungeon's gloom, or 
35 sit in crowded theatres and see life itself mocked, to feel heat 
and cold, pleasure and pain, right and wrong, truth and false- 
hood, to study the works of art and refine the sense of beauty 



THE FEELING OF IMMORTALITY IN YOUTH 167 

to agony, to worship fame and to dream of immortality, to 
have read Shakspeare and belong to the same species as 
Sir Isaac Newton ;i to be and to do all this, and then in a 

1 Lady Wortley Montague says, in one of her letters, that "she 
would much rather be a rich effendi, with all his ignorance, than Sir 5 
Isaac Newton, with all his knowledge." This was not perhaps an 
impolitic choice, as she had a better chance of becoming one than the 
other, there being many rich effendis to one Sir Isaac Newton. 
The wish was not a very intellectual one. The same petulance of 
rank and sex breaks out everywhere in these Letters. She is con- 10 
stantly reducing the poets or philosophers who have the misfortune 
of her acquaintance, to the figure they might make at her lady- 
ship's levee or toilette, not considering that the public mind does 
not sympathise with this process of a fastidious imagination. In 
the same spirit, she declares of Pope and Swift, that "had it not been 15 
for the good-nature of mankind, these two superior beings were en- 
titled, by their birth and hereditary fortune, to be only a couple of 
link-boys." Gulliver's Travels, and the Rape of the Lock, go for 
nothing in this critical estimate, and the world raised the authors 
to the rank of superior beings, in spite of their disadvantages of birth 20 
and fortune, out of pure good nature! So again, she says of Richard- 
son, that he had never got beyond the servant's hall, and was utterly 
unfit to describe the manners of people of quality; till in the capri- 
cious workings of her vanity, she persuades herself that Clarissa is 
very like what she was at her age, and that Sir Thomas and Lady 25 
Grandison stroligly resembled what she had heard of her mother 
and remembered of her father. It is one of the beauties and advan- 
tages of literature, that it is the means of abstracting the mind from 
the narrowness of local and personal prejudices, and of enabling us 
to judge of truth and excellence by their inherent merits alone. Woe 30 
be to the pen that would undo this fine illusion (the only reality), 
and teach us to regulate our notions of genius and virtue by the cir- 
cumstances in which they happen to be placed! You would not ex- 
pect a person whom you saw in a servant's hall, or behind a counter, 
to write Clarissa; but after he had written the work, to pre-judge it 35 
from the situation of the writer, is an unpardonable piece of injustice 
and folly. His merit could only be the greater from the contrast. 
If literature is an elegant accomplishment, which none but persons 
of birth and fashion should be allowed to excel in, or to exercise with 
advantage to the public, let them by all means take upon them the 40 
task of enlightening and refining mankind: if they decline this re- 
sponsibility as too heavy for their shoulders, let those who do the 
drudgery in their stead, however inadequately, for want of their 
polite example, receive the meed that is their due, and not be treated 
as low pretenders who have encroached upon the provinces of their 45 
betters. Suppose Richardson to have been acquainted with the 



168 PHILOSOPHY AND REFLECTION 

moment to be nothing, to have it all snatched from one like 
a juggler's ball or a phantasmagoria; there is something 

great man's steward, or valet, instead of the great man himself, I 
will venture to say that there was more difference between him who 
5 lived in an ideal world, and had the genius and felicity to open that 
world to others, and his friend the steward, than between the lacquey 
and the mere lord, or between those who lived in different rooms of 
the same house, who dined on the same luxuries at different tables, 
who rode outside or inside of the same coach, and were proud of 

10 wearing or of bestowing the same tawdry livery. If the lord is 
distinguished from his valet by anything else, it is by education and 
talent, which he has in common with the author. But if the latter 
shows these in the highest degree, it is asked what are his pretensions ? 
Not birth or fortune, for neither of these would enable him to write 

15 Clarissa. One man is born with a title and estate, another with 
genius. That is. sufficient; and we have no right to question the 
genius for want of the gentility, unless the former ran in families, or 
could be bequeathed with a fortune, which is not the case. Were it 
so, the flowers of literature, like jewels and embroidery, would be 

20 confined to the fashionable circles; and there would be no pretenders 
to taste or elegance but those whose names were found in the court 
list. No one objects to Claude's landscapes as the work of a pastry- 
cook, or withholds from Raphael the epithet of divine, because his 
parents were not rich. This impertinence is confined to men of 

25 letters; the evidence of the senses baffles the envy and foppery of 
mankind. No quarter ought to be given to this aristocratic tone of 
criticism whenever it appears. People of quality aire not contented 
with carrying all the external advantages for their own share, but 
would persuade you that all the intellectual ones are packed up in 

30 the same bundle. Lord Byron was a later instance of this double 
and unwarrantable style of pretension — monstrum ingens, hiforme. 
He could not endure a lord who was not a wit, nor a poet who was 
not a lord. Nobody but himself answered to his own standard of 
perfection. Mr. Moore carries a proxy in his pocket from some noble 

35 persons to estimate literary merit by the same rule. Lady Mary 
calls Fielding names, but she afterwards makes atonement by doing 
justice to his frank, free, hearty nature, where he says "his spirits 
gave him raptures with his cook-maid, and cheerfulness when he was 
starving in a garret, and his happy constitution made him forget 

40 everything when he was placed before a venison-pasty or over a flask 
of champagne." She does not want shrewdness and spirit when 
her petulance and conceit do not get the better of her, and she has 
done ample and merited execution on Lord Bolingbroke. She is, 
however, very angry at the freedoms taken with the Great; smells 

45 a rat in this indiscriminate scribbling, and the familiarity of writers 
with the reading public; and inspired by her Turkish costume, fore- 
tells a French and English revolution as the consequences of transfer- 



THE FEELING OF IMMORTALITY IN YOUTH 169 

revolting and incredible to sense in the transition, and no 
wonder that, aided by youth and warm blood, and the flush 
of enthusiasm, the mind contrives for a long time to reject it 
with disdain and loathing as a monstrous and improbable 
fiction, like a monkey on a house-top, that is loath, amidst its 5 
fine discoveries and specious antics, to be tumbled headlong 
into the street, and crushed to atoms, the sport and laughter 
of the multitude! 

The change, from the commencement to the close of life, 
appears like a fable, after it had taken place; how should we 10 
treat it otherwise than as a chimera before it has come to pass? 
There are some things that happened so long ago, places or 
persons we have formerly seen, of which such dim traces re- 
main, we hardly know whether it was sleeping or waking they 
occurred; they are like dreams within the dream of life, a mist, 15 
a film before the eye of memory, which, as we try to recall 
them more distinctly, elude our notice altogether. It is but 
natural that the lone interval that we thus look back upon 
should have appeared long and endless in prospect. There 
are others so distinct and fresh, they seem but of yesterday 20 
— their very vividness might be deemed a pledge of their 
permanence. Then, however far back our impressions may go, 
we find others still older (for our years are multiplied in youth) 
descriptions of scenes that we had read, and people before 
our time, Priam and the Trojan war; and even then, Nestor 25 
was old and dwelt delighted on his youth, and spoke of the 
race of heroes that were no more; — what wonder that, 
seeing this long line of being pictured in our minds, and re- 
viving as it were in us, we should give ourselves involuntary 
credit for an indeterminate existence? In the cathedral at 30 
Peterborough there is a monument to Mary, Queen of Scots, 
at which I used to gaze when a boy, while the events of the 
period, all that had happened since, passed in review before 
me. If all this mass of feeling and imagination could be 
crowded into a moment's compass, what might not the whole 35 

ring the patronage of letters from the quality to the mob, and of 
supposing that ordinary writers or readers can have any notions in 
common with their superiors. 



170 PHILOSOPHY AND REFLECTION 

of life be supposed to contain? We are heirs of the past, 
we count on the future as our natural reversion. Besides, 
there are some of our early impressions so exquisitely tem- 
pered, it appears that they must always last — nothing can 
5 add to or take away from their sweetness and purity — the 
first breath of spring, the hyacinth dipped in the dew, the 
mild lustre of the evening-star, the rainbow after a storm — 
while we have the full enjoyment of these, we must be young; 
and what can ever alter us in this respect? Truth, friend- 

10 ship, love, books, are also proof against the canker of time; 
and while we live but for them, we can never grow old. We 
take out a new lease of existence from the objects on which 
we set our affections, and become abstracted, impassive, im- 
mortal in them. We cannot conceive how certain senti- 

15ments should ever decay or grow cold in our breasts; and, 
consequently to maintain them in their first youthful glow 
and vigour, the flame of life must continue to burn as bright 
as ever, or rather, they are the fuel that feed the sacred lamp, 
that kindle "the purple light of love," and spread a golden 

20 cloud around our heads! Again, we not only flourish and sur- 
vive in our affections (in which we will not listen to the pos- 
sibility of a change, any more than we foresee the wrinkles on 
the brow of a mistress), but we have a further guarantee 
against the thoughts of death in our favourite studies and 

25 pursuits and in their continual advance. Art we know is 
long; life, we feel, should be so too. We see no end of the 
difficulties we have to encounter: perfection is slow of 
attainment, and we must have time to accomplish it in. 
Rubens complained that when he had just learned his art, 

30 he was snatched away from it: we trust we shall be more 
fortunate! A wrinkle in an old head takes whole days to finish 
it properly: but to catch "the Raphael grace, the Guide air," 
no limit should be put to our endeavours. What a prospect 
for the future! What a task we have entered upon! and shaU 

35 we be arrested in the middle of it? We do not reckon our time 
thus employed lost, or our pains thrown away, or our progress 
slow — we do not droop or grow tired, but "gain a new vigour 
at our endless task;" — and shall Time grudge us the oppor- 



THE FEELING OF IMMORTALITY IN YOUTH 171 

tunity to finish what we have auspiciously begun, and have 
formed a sort of compact with nature to achieve? The fame 
of the great names we look up to is also imperishable; and 
shall not we, who contemplate it with such intense yearnings, 
imbibe a portion of ethereal fire, the divince particula auroe, 5 
which nothing can extinguish? I remember to have looked 
at a print of Rembrandt for hours together, without being 
conscious of the flight of time, trying to resolve it into its 
component parts, to connect its strong and sharp gradations, 
to learn the secret of its reflected lights, and found neither 10 
satiety nor pause in the prosecution of my studies. The print 
over which I was poring would last long enough; why should 
the idea in my mind, which was finer, more impalpable, 
perish before it? At this, I redoubled the ardour of my 
pursuit, and by the very subtlety and refinement of my 15 
inquiries, seemed to bespeak for them an exemption from cor- 
ruption and the rude grasp of Death. ^ 

Objects, on our first acquaintance with them, have that 
singleness and integrity of impression that it seems as if 
nothing could destroy or obliterate them, so firmly are they 20 
stamped and rivetted on the brain. We repose on them with 
a sort of voluptuous indolence, in full faith and boundless 
confidence. We are absorbed in the present moment, or 
return to the same point — idling away a great deal of time 
in youth, thinking we have enough to spare. There is often 25 
a local feeling in the air, which is as fixed as if it were marble; 
we loiter in dim cloisters, losing ourselves in thought and in 
their glimmering arches; a winding road before us seems as 
long as the journey of life, and as full of events. Time and 
experience dissipate this illusion; and by reducing them to 30 
detail, circumscribe the limits of our expectations. It is only 
as the pageant of life passes by and the masques turn their 
backs upon us, that we see through the deception, or beheve 
that the train will have an end. In many cases, the slow 
progress and monotonous texture of our lives, before we 35 

^ Is it not this that frequently keeps artists aUve so long, viz. the 
constant occupation of their minds with vivid images, with little of 
the wear and tear of the body? 



172 PHILOSOPHY AND REFLECTION 

mingle with the world and are embroiled in its affairs, has 
a tendency to aid the same feeling. We have a difficulty, 
when left to ourselves, and without the resource of books or 
some more Hvely pursuit, to ''beguile the slow and creeping 

6 hours of time," and argue that if it moves on always at this 
tedious snail's-pace, it can never come to an end. We are 
willing to skip over certain portions of it that separate us 
from favourite objects, that irritate ourselves at the unneces- 
sary delay. The young are prodigal of life from a super- 

10 abundance of it; the old are tenacious on the same score, 
because they have little left, and cannot enjoy even what re- 
mains of it. 

For my part, I set out in life with the French Revolution, 
and that event had considerable influence on my early feelings, 

15 as on those of others. Youth was then doubly such. It was 
the dawn of a new era, a new impulse had been given to men's 
minds, and the sun of Liberty rose upon the sun of Life in the 
same day, and both were proud to run their race together. 
Little did I dream, while my first hopes and wishes went hand 

20 in hand with those of the human race, that long before my 
eyes should close, that dawn would be overcast, and set once 
more in the night of despotism — ''total eclipse!" Happy 
that I did not. I felt for years, and during the best part of 
my existence, heart-whole in that cause, and triumphed in the 

25 triumphs over the enemies of man! At that time, while the 
fairest aspirations of the human mind seemed about to be 
realised, ere the image of man was defaced and his breast 
mangled in scorn, philosophy took a higher, poetry could 
afford a deeper range. At that time, to read The Robbers was 

30 indeed delicious, and to hear 

"From the dungeon of the tower time-rent, 
That fearful voice, a famish'd father's cry," 

could be borne only amidst the fulness of hope, the crash of 
the fall of the strongholds of power, and the exulting sounds 
35 of the march of human freedom. What feelings the death- 
scene in Don Carlos sent into the soul! In that headlong 
career of lofty enthusiasm, and the joyous opening of the 



THE FEELING OF IMMORTALITY IN YOUTH 173 

prospects of the world and our own, the thought of death 
crossing it, smote doubly cold upon the mind; there was a 
stifling sense of oppression and confinement, an impatience 
of our present knowledge, a desire to grasp the whole of our 
existence in one strong embrace, to sound the mystery of life 5 
and death, and in order to put an end to the agony of doubt 
and dread, to burst through our prison-house, and confront 
the King of Terrors in liis grisly palace! . . . As I was writing 
out this passage, my miniature-picture when a child lay on 
the mantle-piece, and I took it out of the case to look at it. 10 
I could perceive few traces of myself in it; but there was the 
same placid brow, the dimpled mouth, the same timid, in- 
quisitive glance as ever. But its careless smile did not seem 
to reproach me with having become recreant to the senti- 
ments that were then sown in my mind, or with having written 15 
a sentence that could call up a blush in this image of ingenuous 
youth! 

"That time is past with all its giddy raptures." Since the 
future was barred to my progress, I have turned for consola- 
tion to the past, gathering up the fragments of my early recol- 20 
lections, and putting them into form that might live. It is 
thus, that when we find our personal and substantial identity 
vanishing from us, we strive to gain a reflected and sustituted 
one in our thoughts; we do not like to perish wholly, and wish 
to bequeath our names at least to posterity. As long as we 25 
can keep alive our cherished thoughts and nearest interests 
in the minds of others, we do not appear to have retired al- 
together from the stage, we still occupy a place in the estima- 
tion of mankind, exercise a powerful influence over them, and 
it is only our bodies that are trampled into dust or dispersed 30 
to air. Our darling speculations still find favour and en- 
couragement, and we make as good a figure in the eyes of 
our descendants, nay, perhaps, a better than we did in our 
life-time. This is one point gained; the demands of our 
self-love are so far satisfied. Besides, if by the proofs of 35 
intellectual superiority we survive ourselves in this world, by 
exemplary virtue or unblemished faith, we are taught to 
ensure an interest in another and a higher state of being, and 



174 PHILOSOPHY AND REFLECTION 

to anticipate at the same time the applauses of men and 
angels. 

"Even from the tomb the voice of nature cries; 
Even in our ashes live their wonted fires." 

5 As we advance in life, we acquire a keener sense of the value 
of time. Nothing else, indeed, seems of any consequence; 
and we become misers in this respect. We try to arrest its 
few last tottering steps, and to make it linger on the brink 
of the grave. We can never leave off wondering how that 

10 which has ever been should cease to be, and would still live on, 
that we may wonder at our own shadow, and when "all the 
life of life is flown, " dwell on the retrospect of the past. This 
is accompanied by a mechanical tenaciousness of whatever we 
possess, by a distrust and a sense of fallacious hollowness in 

15 all we see. Instead of the full, pulpy feeling of youth, every 
thing is flat and insipid. The world is a painted witch, that 
puts us off with false shews and tempting appearances. The 
ease, the jocund gaiety, the unsuspecting security of youth are 
fled: nor can we, without flying in the face of common sense, 

20 "From the last dregs of life, hope to receive 

What its first sprightly runnings could not give." 

If we can shp out of the world without notice or mischance, 
can tamper with bodily infirmity, and frame our minds to the 
becoming composure of still-life, before we sink into total 

25insensibihty, it is as much as we ought to expect. We do not 
in the regular course of nature die all at once: we have 
mouldered away gradually long before; faculty after faculty, 
attachment after attachment, we are torn from ourselves 
piece-meal while living; year after year takes something 

30 from us; and death only consigns the last remnant of what 
we were to the grave. The revulsion is not so great, and a 
quiet euthanasia is a winding-up of the plot, that is not out 
of reason or nature. 

That we should thus in a manner outlive ourselves, and 

35 dwindle imperceptibly into nothing, is not surprising, when 
even in our prime the strongest impressions leave so little 
traces of themselves behind, and the last object is driven out 



THE FEELING OF IMMORTALITY IN YOUTH 175 

by the succeeding one. How little effect is produced on us 
at any time by the books we have read, the scenes we have 
witnessed, the sufferings we have gone through! Think only 
of the variety of feelings we experience in reading an interest- 
ing romance, or being present at a fine play — what beauty, 6 
what sublimity, what soothing, what heart-rending emotions! 
You would suppose these would last for ever, or at least sub- 
due the mind to a correspondent tone and harmony — while 
we turn over the page, while the scene is passing before us, it 
seems as if nothing could ever after shake our resolution, that 10 
"treason domestic, foreign levy, nothing could touch us 
farther!" The first splash of mud we get, on entering the 
street, the first pettifogging shopkeeper that cheats us out of 
two-pence, and the whole vanishes clean out of our remem- 
brance, and we become the idle prey of the most petty and 15 
annoying circumstances. The mind soars by an effort to 
the grand and lofty, it is at home in the grovelling, the disa- 
greeable, and the little. This happens in the height and 
hey-day of our existence, when novelty gives a stronger im- 
pulse to the blood and takes a faster hold of the brain (1 20 
have known the impression on coming out of a gallery of 
pictures then last half a day) — as we grow old, we become 
more feeble and querulous, every object "reverbs its own 
hoUowness, " and both worlds are not enough to satisfy the 
peevish importunity and extravagant presumption of our 25 
desires! There are a few superior, happy beings, who are 
born with a temper exempt from every trifling annoyance. ^ 
This spirit sits serene and smiling as in its native skies, and a 
divine harmony (whether heard or not) plays around them. 
This is to be at peace. Without this, it is in vain to fly into 30 
deserts, or to build a hermitage on the top of rocks, if regret 
and ill-humour follow us there; and with this, it is needless 
to make the experiment. The only true retirement is that 
of the heart; the only true leisure is the repose of the pas- 
sions. To such persons it makes little difference whether they 35 
are young or old ; and they die as they have lived, with grace- 
ful resignation. 



MERRY ENGLAND 

"St. George for Merry England !" 

This old-fashioned epithet might be supposed to have been 
bestowed ironically, or on the old principle — Ut lucus a non 
lucendo. Yet there is something in the sound that hits the 

5 fancy, and a sort of truth beyond appearances. To be sure, 
it is from a dull, homely ground that the gleams of mirth and 
jollity break out; but the streaks of light that tinge the 
evening sky are not the less striking on that account. The 
beams of the morning sun shining on the lonely glades, or 

10 through the idle branches of the tangled forest, the leisure, 
the freedom, "the pleasure of going and coming without 
knowing where," the troops of wild deer, the sports of the 
chase, and other rustic gambols were sufficient to justify 
the well-known appellation of ''Merry Sherwood," and in 

15 like manner we may apply the phrase to Merry England. 
The smile is not the less sincere because it does not always 
play upon the cheek; and the jest is not the less welcome, 
nor the laugh less hearty, because they happen to be a relief 
from care or leaden-eyed melancholy. The instances are the 

20 more precious as they are rare; and we look forward to them 
with the greater good will, or back upon them with the greater 
gratitude, as we drain the last drop in the cup with particular 
relish. If not always gay or in good spirits, we are glad when 
any occasion draws us out of our natural gloom, and disposed 

25 to make the most of it. We may say with Silence in the play, 
"I have been merry ere now," — and this once was to serve 
him all his life; for he was a person of wonderful silence and 
gravity, though ''he chirped over his cups," and announced 
with characteristic glee that "there were pippins and cheese to 

30 come." Silence was in this sense a merry man, that is, he 
would be merry if he could, and a very great economy of wit, 

176 



MERRY ENGLAND 177 

like a very slender fare, was a banquet to him, from the sim- 
plicity of his taste and habits. "Continents," says Hobbes, 
"have most of what they contain" — and in this view it 
may be contended that the English are the merriest people 
in the world, since they only show it on high-days and holi- 5 
days. They are then like a school-boy let loose from school, 
or like a dog that has slipped his collar. They are not gay 
like the French, who are one eternal smile of self-complacency, 
tortured into affectation, or spun out into languid indiffer- 
ence, nor are they voluptuous and immersed in sensual in- 10 
dolence, like the Italians; but they have that sort of inter- 
mittent, fitful, irregular gaiety, which is neither worn out 
by habit, nor deadened by passion, but is sought with avidity 
as it takes the mind by surprise, is startled by a sense of od- 
dity and incongruity, indulges its wayward humours or lively 15 
impulses, with perfect freedom and lightness of heart, and 
seizes occasion by the forelock, that it may return to serious 
business with more cheerfulness, and have something to 
beguile the hours of thought or sadness. I do not see how 
there can be high spirits without low ones; and everything 20 
has its price according to circumstances. Perhaps we have 
to pay a heavier tax on pleasure, than some others: -what 
skills it, so long as our good spirits and good hearts enable 
us to bear it? 

"They" (the English), saj^s Froissart, "amused themselves 25 
sadly after the fashion of their country" — Us se rejouissoient 
tristement selon la couiume de leur pays. They have indeed a 
way of their own. Their mirth is a relaxation from gravity, 
a challenge to dull care to be gone; and one is not always 
clear at first, whether the appeal is successful. The cloud 30 
may still hang on the brow; the ice may not thaw at once. 
To help them out in their new character is an act of charity. 
Anything short of hanging or drowning is something to 
begin with. They do not enter into their amusements the 
less doggedly because they may plague others. They like 35 
a thing the better for hitting them a rap on the knuckles, 
for making their blood tingle. They do not dance or sing, 
but they make good cheer — "eat, drink, and are merry." 



178 PHILOSOPHY AND REFLECTION 

No people are fonder of field-sports, Christmas gambols, 
or practical jests. Blindman's buff, hunt-the-slipper, hot- 
cockles, and snap-dragon are all approved English games, 
full of laughable surprises and ''hairbreadth 'scapes," and 
5 serve to amuse the winter fireside after the roast beef and 
plum pudding, the spiced ale and roasted crab, thrown 
(hissing-hot) into the foaming tankard. Punch (not the 
liquor, but the puppet) is not, I fear, of English origin; but 
there is no place, I take it, where he finds himself more at 

10 home or meets a more joyous welcome, where he collects 
greater crowds at the corners of streets, where he opens the 
eyes or distends the cheeks wider, or where the bangs and 
blows, the uncouth gestures, ridiculous anger and screaming 
voice of the chief performer excite more boundless merriment 

15 or louder bursts of laughter among all ranks and sorts of 
people. An English theatre is the very throne of pantomime; 
nor do I believe that the gallery and boxes of Drury-lane or 
Covent-garden filled on the proper occasion with hoUday 
folks (big or little) yield the palm for undisguised, tumul- 

20tuous, inextinguishable laughter to any spot in Europe. I 
do not speak of the refinement of the mirth (this is no fastid- 
ious speculation) but of its cordiality, on the return of these 
long looked-for and licensed periods; and I may add here, 
by way of illustration, that the English common people are 

25 a sort of grown children, spoiled and sulky perhaps, but full 
of glee and merriment, when their attention is drawn off by 
some sudden and striking object. The May-pole is almost 
gone out of fashion among us: but May-day, besides its 
flowering hawthorns and its pearly dews, has still its boasted 

30 exhibition of painted chimney-sweepers and their Jack-o'- 
the-Green, whose tawdry finery, bedizened faces, unwonted 
gestures, and short-lived pleasures call forth good-humoured 
smiles and looks of sympathy in the spectators. There is no 
place where trap-ball, fives, prison-base, foot-ball, quoits, 

35 bowls are better understood or more successfully practiced; 
and the very names of a cricket bat and ball make English 
fingers tingle. What happy days must "Long Robinson" 
have passed in getting ready his wickets and mending his 



MERRY ENGLAND 179 

bats, who when two of the fingers of his right hand were 
struck off by the violence of a ball, had a screw fastened to it 
to hold the bat, and with the other hand still sent the ball 
thundering against the boards that bounded Old Lord's 
cricket ground ! What delightful hours must have been his 5 
in looking forw^ard to the matches that were to come, in re- 
counting the feats he had performed in those that were past! 
I have myself whiled away whole mornings in seeing him 
strike the ball (like a countryman mowing with a scythe) 
to the farthest extremity of the smooth, level, sun-burnt 10 
ground, and with long, awkward strides count the notches 
that made victory sure! Then again, cudgel-playing, quarter- 
staff, bull and badger-baiting, cock-fighting are almost the 
peculiar diversions of this island, and often objected to us 
as barbarous and cruel; horse-racing is the delight and the 15 
ruin of numbers; and the noble science of boxing is all our 
own. Foreigners can scarcely understand how we can 
squeeze pleasure out of this pastime; the luxury of hard 
blows given or received; the joy of the ring; nor the perse- 
verance of the combatants.^ The English also excel, or are 20 
not excelled in wiring a hare, in stalking a deer, in shooting, 
fishing, and hunting. England to this day boasts her Robin 
Hood and his merry men, that stout archer and outlaw, and 
patron saint of the sporting calendar. What a cheerful 

1 "The gentle and free passage of arms at Ashby" was, we are told, 25 
so called by the Chroniclers of the time, on account of the feats of 
horsemanship and the quantity of knightly blood that was shed. 
This last circumstance was perhaps necessary to qualify it with the 
epithet of "gentle," in the opinion of some of these historians. I 
think the reason why the English are the bravest nation on earth, is 30 
that, the thought of blood or a delight in cruelty is not the chief 
excitement with them. Where it is, there is necessarily a reaction; 
for though it may add to our eagerness and savage ferocity in in- 
fhcting wounds, it does not enable us to endure them with greater 
patience. The English are led to the attack or sustain it equally well, 35 
because they fight as they box, not out of malice, but to show pluck 
and manhood. Fair play and old England forever! This is the only 
bravery that will stand the test. There is the same determination 
and spirit shown in resistance as in attack; but not the same pleasure 
in getting a cut with a sabre as in giving one. There is, therefore, 40 
always a certain degree of effeminacy mixed up with any approach 



180 PHILOSOPHY AND REFLECTION 

sound is that of the hunters, issuing from the autumnal wood 
and sweeping over hill and dale! 

— "A cry more tuneable 
Was never halloo'd to by hound or horn." 

5 What sparkling richness in the scarlet coats of the riders, 
what a glittering confusion in the pack, what spirit in the 
horses, what eagerness in the followers on foot, as they dis- 
perse over the plain, or force their way over hedge and ditch! 
Surely, the coloured prints and pictures of these, hung up in 

10 gentlemen's halls and village alehouses, however humble as 
works of art, have more life and health and spirit in them, 
and mark the pith and nerve of the national character more 
creditably than the mawkish, sentimental, affected designs 
of Theseus and Pirithous, and iEneas and Dido, pasted on 

15 foreign salons a 7nanger, and the interior of country houses. 
If our tastes are not epic, nor our pretensions lofty, they are 
simple and our own; and we may possibly enjoy our native 
rural sports, and the rude remembrances of them, with the 
truer relish on this account, that they are suited to us and we 

20 to them. The EngUsh nation, too, are naturally ''brothers 
of the angle." This pursuit implies just that mixture of 
patience and pastime, of vacancy and thoughtfulness, of 
idleness and business, of pleasure and of pain, which is suited 
to the genius of an Enghshman, and as I suspect, of no one 

25 else in the same degree. He is eminently gifted to stand in 
the situation assigned by Dr. Johnson to the angler, "at one 
end of a rod with a worm at the other. " I should suppose no 

to cruelty, since both have their source in the same principle, viz. an 
over-valuing of pain (a). This was the reason the French (having 

30 the best cause and the best general in the world) ran away at Water- 
loo, because they were inflamed, furious, drunk with the blood of 
their enemies, but when it came to their turn, wanting the same 
stimulus, they were panic-struck, and their hearts and their senses 
failed them all at once. 

35 (a) Vanity is the same half-witted principle, compared with pride. 
It leaves men in the lurch when it is most needed; is mortified at 
being reduced to stand on the defensive, and relinquishes the field 
to its more surly antagonist. 



MERRY ENGLAND 181 

other language can show such a book as an often-mentioned 
one, Walton's Complete Angler, — so full of naivete, of unaf- 
fected sprightliness, of busy triflmg, of dainty songs, of 
refreshing brooks, of shady arbours, of happy thoughts and 
of the herb called Heart's Ease! Some persons can see neither 5 
the wit nor wisdom of this genuine volume, as if a book as 
well as a man might not have a personal character belonging 
to it, amiable, venerable from the spiiit of joy and thorough 
goodness it manifests, independently of acute remarks or 
scientific discoveries; others object to the cruelty of Wal-lO 
ton's theory and practice of trout-fisliing — for my part, I 
should as soon charge an infant with cruelty for killing a fly, 
and I feel the same sort of pleasure in reading his book as I 
should have done in the company of this happy, childlike 
old man, watching his ruddy cheek, his laughing eye, the 15 
kindness of his heart, and the dexterity of his hand in seizing 
his finny prey! It must be confessed, there is often an odd 
sort of materiality in English sports and recreations. I have 
known several persons whose existence consisted wholly in 
manual exercises, and aU whose enjoyments lay at their finger- 20 
ends. Their greatest happiness was in cutting a stick, in 
mending a cabbage-net, in digging a hole in the ground, in 
hitting a mark, turning a lathe, or in something else of the 
same kind, at which they had a certain knack. Well is it 
when we can amuse ourselves with such trifles and without 25 
injury to others! This class of character, which the Spectator 
has immortalised in the person of Will Wimble, is still com- 
mon among younger brothers and retired gentlemen of small 
incomes in town or country. The cockney character is of our 
English growth, as this intimates a feverish, fidgety delight 30 
in rural sights and sounds, and a longing wish, after the tur- 
moil and confinement of a city-life, to transport one's-self 
to the freedom and breathing sweetness of a country retreat. 
London is half suburbs. The suburbs of Paris are a desert, 
and you see nothing but crazy windmills, stone walls, and 35 
a few straggling visitants in spots where in England you 
would find a thousand villas, a thousand terraces crowned 
with their own deUghts, or be stunned with the noise of 



182 PHILOSOPHY AND REFLECTION 

bowling-greens and tea-gardens, or stifled with the fumes of 
tobacco minghng with fragrant shrubs, or the clouds of dust 
raised by half the population of the metropolis panting and 
toiling in search of a mouthful of fresh air. The Parisian is, 

5 perhaps, as well (or better) contented with himself wherever 
he is, stewed in his shop or his garret ; the Londoner is miser- 
able in these circumstances, and glad to escape from them.^ 
Let no one object to the gloomy appearance of a London 
Sunday, compared with a Parisian one. It is a part of our 

10 politics and our religion; we would not have James the 
First's Book of Sports thrust down our throats; and besides, 
it is a part of our character to do one thing at a time, and not 
to be dancing a jig and on our knees in the same breath. It 
is true the Englishman spends his Sunday evening at the ale- 

15 house — , 

"And e'en on Sunday 
Drank with Kirton Jean till Monday" — 

but he only unbends and waxes mellow by degrees, and sits 
soaking till he can neither sit, stand, nor go; it is his vice, and 

20 a beastly one it is, but not a proof of any inherent distaste to 
mirth or good-fellowship. Neither can foreigners throw the 
carnival in our teeth with any effect: those who have seen 
it (at Florence, for example) will say that it is duller than 
anything in England. Our Bartholomew Fair is Queen Mab 

25 herself to it! What can be duller than a parcel of masks 
moving about the streets and looking as grave and monoto- 
nous as possible from day to day, and with the same lifeless 
formality in their limbs and gestures as in their features? 
One might as well expect variety and spirit in a procession of 

30 waxwork. We must be hard run indeed, when we have re- 
course to a pasteboard proxy to set off our mirth; a mask may 
be a very good cover for licentiousness (though of that I saw 
no signs), but is a very bad exponent of wit and humour. I 
should suppose there is more drollery and unction in the 

35 ^ The English are fond of change of scene ; the French of change 
of posture; the Italians like to sit still and do nothing. 



MERRY ENGLAND 183 

caricatures in Gilraj^'s shop-window, than in all the masks 
in Italy, without exception. ^ 

The humour of English writing and description has often 
been wondered at; and it flows from the same source as the 
merry traits of our character. A degree of barbarism and 5 
rusticity seems necessary to the perfection of humour. The 
droll and laughable depend on peculiarity and incongruity 
of character. But with the progress of refinement, the pe- 
culiarities of individuals and of classes wear out or lose their 
sharp, abrupt edges; nay, a certain slowness and dullness of 10 
understanding is required to be struck with odd and unac- 
countable appearances, for which a greater facility of appre- 
hension can sooner assign an explanation that breaks the 
force of the seeming absurdity, and to which a wider scope of 
imagination is mor^ easily reconciled. Clowns and country 15 
people are more amused, are more disposed to laugh and make 
sport of the dress of strangers, because from their ignorance 
the surprise is greater, and they cannot conceive anything to 
be natural or proper to which they are unused. Without a 
given portion of hardness and repulsiveness of feeling the 20 
ludicrous cannot well exist. Wonder and curiosity, the 
attributes of inexperience, enter greatly into its composition. 
Now it appears to me that the EngHsh are (or were) just at 
that mean point between intelligence and obtuseness, which 
must produce the most abundant and happiest crop of 25 
hmnour. Absurdity and singularity glide over the French 
mind without jarring or jostling with it; or they evaporate 
in levity; — with the Itahans they are lost in indolence or 
pleasure. The ludicrous takes hold of the English imagi- 
nation, and clings to it with all its ramifications. We 30 
reseiit any difference or peculiarity of appearance at first, 
and yet, having not much malice at our hearts, we are glad to 

1 Beiis are peculiar to England. They jingle them in Italy during 
the carnival as boys do with us at Shrovetide; but they have no no- 
tion of ringing them. The sound of village bells never cheers you 35 
in travelling, nor have you the lute or cittern in their stead. Yet 
the expression of "Merry Bells" is a favourite, and not one of the 
least appropriate in our language. 



184 PHILOSOPHY AND REFLECTION" 

turn it into a jest — we are liable to be offended, and as 
willing to be pleased — struck with oddity from not knowing 
what to make of it, we wonder and burst out a-laughing at 
the eccentricity of others, while we follow our own bent from 
SwiKulness or simplicity, and thus afford them, in our turn, 
matter for the indulgence of the comic vein. It is possible 
that a greater refinement of manners may give birth to finer 
distinctions of satire and a nicer tact for the ridiculous; but 
our insular situation and character are, I should say, most 

10 likely to foster, as they have in fact fostered, the greatest 
quantity of natural and striking humour, in spite of our 
plodding tenaciousness, and want both of gaiety and quick- 
ness of perception. A set of raw recruits with their awkward 
movements and unbending joints are laughable enough: 

15 but they cease to be so, when they have once been drilled into 
discipline and uniformity. So it is with nations that lose 
their angular points and grotesque qualities with education 
and intercourse: but it is in a mixed state of manners that 
comic humour chiefly flourishes, for, in order that the drol- 

20 lery may not be lost, we must have spectators of the passing 
scene who are able to appreciate and embody its most re- 
markable features, — wits as /well as butts for ridicule. I 
shall mention two names in this department which may 
serve to redeem the national character from absolute dullness 

25 and solemn pretence, — Fielding and Hogarth. These were 
thorough specimens of true English humour; yet both were 
grave men. In reality, too high a pitch of animal spirits 
runs away with the imagination, instead of helping it to reach 
the goal; is inclined to take the jest for granted when it 

30 ought to work it out with patient and marked touches, and 
it ends in vapid flippancy and impertinence. Among our 
neighbours on the Continent, Moliere and Rabelais carried 
the freedom of wit and humour to an almost incredible height; 
but they rather belonged to the old French school, and even 

35 approach and exceed the English license and extravagance of 
conception. I do not consider Congreve's wit (though it 
belongs to us) as coming under the article here spoken of; for 
his genius is any thing but merry. Lord Byron was in the 



MERRY ENGLAND 185 

habit of railing at the spirit of our good old comedy, and of 
abusing Shakspeare's clowns and fools, which he said the 
refinement of the French and Italian stage would not endure 
and which only our grossness and puerile taste could tolerate. 
In this I agree with him; and it is pat to my purpose. I 5 
flatter myself that we are almost the only people who under- 
stand and relish nonsense. We are not "merry and wise," 
but indulge our mirth to excess and folly. When we trifle, 
we trifle in good earnest ; and having once relaxed our hold of 
the helm, drift idly down the stream, and dehghted with 10 
the change, are tossed about "by every little breath" of 
wliim or caprice, 

"That under Heaven is blown." 

All we then want is to proclaim a truce with reason, and to be 
pleased with as little expense of thought or pretension to 15 
wisdom as possible. This licensed fooling is carried to its 
very utmost length in Shakespeare, and in some other of our 
elder dramatists, without, perhaps, sufficient warrant or the 
same excuse. Nothing can justify this extreme relaxation 
but extreme tension. Shakspeare's trifling does indeed tread 20 
upon the very borders of vacancy: his meaning often hangs 
by the very slenderest threads. For this he might be blamed 
if it did not take away our breath to follow his eagle flights, 
or if he did not at other times make the cordage of our hearts 
crack. After our heads ache with thinking, it is fair to play 25 
the fool. The clowns were as proper an appendage to the 
gravity of our antique literature, as fools and dwarfs were to 
the stately dignity of courts and noble houses in former days. 
Of all people, they have the best right to claim a total exemp- 
tion from rules and rigid formality, who, when they have 30 
anything of importance to do, set about it with the greatest 
earnestness and perseverance, and are generally grave and 
sober tu a proverb.^ Poor Swift, who wrote more idle or 
nonsense verses than any man, was the severest of moralists; 
and his feelings and observations morbidly acute. Did not 35 

1 The strict formality of French serious writing is resorted to as a 
fpil to the natural levity of their character. 



186 PHILOSOPHY AND REFLECTION 

Lord Byron himself follow up his Childe Harold with his 
Don Juan ? — not that I insist on what he did as any illustra- 
tion of the English character. He was one of the English 
Nobility, not one of the English People; and his occasional 
5 ease and familiarity were in my mind equally constrained and 
affected, whether in relation to the pretensions of his rank or 
the efforts of his genius. 

They ask you in France, how you pass your time in Eng- 
land without amusements; and can with difficulty believe 

10 that there are theatres in London, still less that they are larger 
and handsomer than those in Paris. That we should have 
comic actors, "they own, surprises them." They judge of 
the English character in the lump as one great jolter-head, 
containing all the stupidity of the country, as the large ball 

15 at the top of the Dispensary in Warwick-lane, from its re- 
semblance to a gilded pill, has been made to represent the 
whole pharmacopoeia and professional quackery of the 
kingdom. They have no more notion, for instance, how we 
should have such an actor as Liston on our stage, than if we 

20 were to tell them we have parts performed by a sea-otter; 
nor if they were to see him, would they be much the wiser, or 
know what to think of his unaccountable twitches of counte- 
nance or nondescript gestures, of his teeth chattering in his 
head, his eyes that seem dropping from their sockets, his nose 

25 that is tickled by a jest as by a feather, and shining with self- 
complacency as if oiled, his ignorant conceit, his gaping stupor, 
his lumpish vivacity in Lubin Log or Tony Lumpkin; for as 
our rivals do not wind up the machine to such a determined 
intensity of purpose, neither have they any idea of its run- 

30 ning down to such degrees of imbecility and folly, or coming 
to an absolute standstill and lack of meaning, nor can they 
enter into or be amused with the contrast. No people ever 
laugh heartily who can give a reason for their doing so; and I 
beUeve the English in general are not yet in this predicament. 

35 They are not metaphysical, but very much in a state of nature; 
and this is one main ground why I give them credit for being 
merry, notwithstanding appearances. Their mirth is not the 
mirth of vice or desperation, but of innocence and a native 



MERRY ENGLAND 187 

wildness. They do not cavil or boggle at niceties, or merely 
come to the edge of a joke, but break their necks over it with 
a wanton "Here goes," where others make a pirouette and 
stand upon decorum. The French cannot, however, be per- 
suaded of the excellence of our comic stage, nor of the store 5 
we set by it. When they ask what amusements we have, it is 
plain they can never have heard of Mrs. Jordan, nor King, nor 
Bannister, nor Suett, nor Munden, nor Lewis, nor little 
Simmons, nor Dode, and Parsons, and Emery, and Miss 
Pope, and Miss Farren, and all those who even in my time 10 
have gladdened a nation and ''made life's business like a 
summer's dream." Can I think of them, and of their names 
that glittered in the playbills when I was young, exciting all 
the flutter of hope and expectation of seeing them in their 
favourite parts of Nell, or Little Pickle, or Touchstone, or 15 
Sir Peter Teazle, or Lenitive in The Prize, or Lingo, or Crab- 
tree, or Nipperkin, or old Dornton, or Ranger, or the Copper 
Captain, or Lord Sands, or Filch, or Moses, or Sir Andrew 
Aguecheek, or Acres, or Elbow, or Hodge, or Flora, or the 
Duenna, or Lady Teazle, or Lady Grace, or of the gaiety that 20 
sparkled in all eyes, and the delight that overflowed all hearts, 
as they glanced before us in these parts, 

"Throwing a gaudy shadow upon life," — 

and not feel my heart yearn within me, or couple the thoughts 
of England and the spleen together? Our cloud has at least 25 
its rainbow tints: ours is not one long polar night of cold and 
dullness, but we have the gleaming lights of fancy to amuse us, 
the household fires of truth and genius to warm us. We can 
go to a play and see Liston; or stay at home and read Roder- 
ick Random ; or have Hogarth's prints of Marriage a la Mode 30 
hanging round our room. "Tut! there's livers even in Eng- 
land," as well as "out of it." We are not quite i\iQ forlorn 
hope of humanity, the last of nations. The French look at 
us across the Channel, and seeing nothing but water and a 
cloudy mist, think that this is England. ' 35' 

"What's our Britain 

In the world's volume? In a great pool a swan's nest." 



188 PHILOSOPHY AND REFLECTION 

If they have any farther idea of us, it is of George III and our 
Jack tars, the House of Lords and House of Commons, and 
this is no great addition to us. To go beyond this, to talk of 
arts and elegances as having taken up their abode here, or to 

^'Ssay that Mrs. Abington was equal to Mademoiselle Mars, 
and that we at one time got up the School for Scandal, as they 
do the Misanthrope, is to persuade them that Iceland is a 
pleasant summer retreat, or to recommend the whale fishery 
as a classical amusement. The French are the cockneys of 

10 Europe, and have no idea how anyone can exist out of Paris, 
or be aUve without incessant grimace and jabber. Yet what 
imports it? What! though the joyous train I have just 
enumerated were, perhaps, never heard of in the precincts of 
the Palais-Royal, is it not enough that they gave pleasure 

15 where they were, to those who saw and heard them? Must 
our laugh, to be sincere, have its echo on the other side of the 
water? Had not the French their favourites and their en- 
joyments at the time, that we knew nothing of? Why then 
should we not have ours (and boast of them too) without their 

20 leave? A monopoly of self-conceit is not a monopoly of all 
other advantages. The English, when they go abroad, do 
not take away the prejudice against them by their looks. 
We seem duller and sadder than we are. As I write this, I 
am sitting in the open air in a beautiful valley near Vevey: 

25 Clarens is on my left, the Dent de Jamant is behind me, the 
rocks of Meillerie opposite: under my feet is a green bank, 
enamelled with white and purple flowers, in which a dew- 
drop here and there still glitters with pearly light — 

"And gaudy butterflies flutter around." 

30 Intent upon the scene and upon the thoughts that stir within 
me, I conjure up the cheerful passages of my life, and a crowd 
of happy images appear before me. No one would see it in 
my looks — my eyes grow dull and fixed, and I seem rooted to 
the spot, as all this phantasmagoria passes in review before 

35 me, glancing a reflex lustre on the face of the world and 
nature. But the traces of pleasure, in my case, sink into an 
absorbent ground of thoughtful melancholy, and require to 



MERRY ENGLAND 189 

be brought out by time and circumstances, or (as the critics 
tell you) by the varnish of style! 

The comfort, on which the English lay so much stress, is of 
the same character, and arises from the same source as their 
mirth. Both exist by contrast and a sort of contradiction. 5 
The English are certainly the most uncomfortable of all people 
in themselves, and therefore it is that they stand in need of 
every kind of comfort and accommodation. The least thing 
puts them out of their way, and therefore everything must 
be in its place. They are mightily offended at disagreeable 10 
tastes and smells, and therefore they exact the utmost neat- 
ness and nicety. They are sensible of heat and cold, and 
therefore they cannot exist, unless everything is snug and 
warm, or else open and airy, where they are. They must 
have "all appliances and means to boot." They are afraid 15 
of interruption and intrusion, and therefore they shut them- 
selves up in in-door enjoyments and by their own firesides. 
It is not that they require luxuries (for that implies a high 
degree of epicurean indulgence and gratification), but they 
cannot do without their comforts; that is, whatever tends to 20 
supply their physical wants, and ward off physical pain and 
annoyance. As they have not a fund of animal spirits and 
enjoyments in themselves, they cling to external objects for 
support, and derive solid satisfaction from the ideas of order, 
cleanliness, plenty, property, and domestic quiet, as they 25 
seek for diversion from odd accidents and grotesque surprises, 
and have the highest possible relish not of voluptuous soft- 
ness, but of hard knocks and dry blows, as one means of 
ascertaining their personal identity. 



ON DISAGREEABLE PEOPLE 

Those people who are uncomfortable in themselves are dis- 
agreeable to others. I do not here mean to speak of persons 
who offend intentionally, or are obnoxious to dislike from some 
palpable defect of mind or body, ugliness, pride, ill-humour, 
5 etc., — but of those who are disagreeable in spite of them- 
selves, and, as it might appear, with almost every quali- 
fication to recommend them to others. This want of success 
is owing chiefly to something in what is called their manner; 
and this again has its foundation in a certain cross-grained and 

10 unsociable state of feeling on their part, which influences us, 
perhaps, without our distinctly adverting to it. The mind is 
a finer instrument than we sometimes suppose it, and is not 
only swayed by overt acts and tangible proofs, but has an 
instinctive feeling of the air of truth. We find many indi- 

l5viduals in whose company we pass our time, and have no 
particular fault to find with their understandings or character, 
and yet we are never thoroughly satisfied with them: the 
reason will turn out to be, upon examination, that they aire 
never thoroughly satisfied with themselves, but uneasy and 

20 out of sorts all the time; and this makes us uneasy with them, 

without our reflecting on, or being able to discover the cause. 

Thus, for instance, we meet with persons who do us a 

number of kindnesses, who show us every mark of respect and 

good will, who are friendly and serviceable, — and yet we do 

25 not feel grateful to them, after all. We reproach ourselves 
with this as caprice or insensibility, and try to get the better of 
it; but there is something in their way of doing things that 
prevents us from feeling cordial or sincerely obliged to them. 
We think them very worthy people, and would be glad of an 

30 opportunity to do them a good turn if it were in our power; 
but we cannot get beyond this; the utmost we can do is to 
save appearances, and not come to an open rupture with 

190 



ON DISAGREEABLE PEOPLE 191 

them. The truth is, in all such cases, we do not sympathise 
(a we ought) with them, because they do not sympathise 
(as they ought) with us. They have done what they did from 
a sense of duty, in a cold, dry manner, or from a meddlesome 
busybody humour; or to shew their superiority over us, or to 5 
patronise our infirmity; or they have dropped some hint by 
the way, or blundered upon some topic they should not, and 
have shown, by one means or other, that they were occupied 
with anything but the pleasure they were affording us, or a 
delicate attention to our feelings. Such persons may be 10 
styled friendly grievances. They are commonly people of 
low spirits and disappointed views, who see the discouraging 
side of human life, and, with the best intentions in the world, 
contrive to make everything they have to do with uncom- 
fortable. They are alive to your distress, and take pains to 15 
remove it; but they have no satisfaction in the gaiety and 
ease they have communicated, and are on the look-out for 
some new occasion of signalising their zeal; nor are they back- 
ward to insinuate that you will soon have need of their as- 
sistance, to guard you against running into fresh difficulties, 20 
or to extricate you from them. From large benevolence of 
soul and "discourse of reason, looking before and after," 
they are continually reminding you of something that has 
gone wrong in time past, or that may do so in that which is 
to come, and are surprised that their awkward hints, sly in- 25 
nuendos, blunt questions, and solemn features do not excite 
all the complacency and mutual good understanding in you 
which it is intended that they should. When they make 
themselves miserable on your account, it is hard that you will 
not lend them your countenance and support. This de-30 
plorable humour of theirs does not hit anyone else. They 
are useful, but not agreeable people; they may assist you in 
your affairs, but they depress and tyrannise over your feelings. 
When they have made you happy, they will not let you be so 

— have no enjoyment of the good they have done — will on 35 
no account part with their melancholy and desponding tone 

— and, by their mawkish insensibility and doleful grimaces, 
throw a damp over the triumph they are called upon to 



192 PHILOSOPHY AND REFLECTION 

celebrate. They would keep you in hot water, that they may 
help you out of it. They will nurse you in a fit of sickness 
(congenial sufferers!) — arbitrate a law-suit for you, and 
embroil you deeper — procure you a loan of money; — but 
5 all the while they are only delighted with rubbing the sore 
place, and casting the colour of your mental or other disorders. 
''The whole need not a physician;" and, being once placed 
at ease and comfort, they have no farther use for you as 
subjects for their singular beneficence, and you are not sorry 

10 to be quit of their tiresome interference. The old proverb, 
A friend in need is a friend indeed, is not verified in them. 
The class of persons here spoken of are the very reverse of 
summer-friends, who court you in prosperity, flatter your 
vanity, are the humble servants of your follies, never see or 

15 allude to anything wrong, minister to your gaiety, smooth 
over every difficulty, and, with the slightest approach of mis- 
fortune or of anything unpleasant, take French leave: — 

"As when, in prime of June, a burnished fly. 
Sprung from the meads, o'er which he sweeps along, 

20 Cheered by the breathing bloom and vital sky, 

Tunes up amid these airy halls his song, 
Soothing at first the gay reposing throng; 
And oft he sips their bowl, or nearly drowned, 
He thence recovering drives their beds among, 

25 And scares their tender sleep with trump profound; 

Then out again he flies to wing his mazy round." 

Thomson's Castle of Indolence. 

However we may despise such triflers, yet we regret them more 
than those well-meaning friends on whom a dull melancholy 
vapour hangs, that drags them and everyone about them to 

30 the ground. 

Again, there are those who might be very agreeable people, 
if they had but spirit to be so ; but there is a narrow, unaspir- 
ing, under-bred tone in all they say or do. They have great 
sense and information — • abound in a knowledge of character 

35 — have a fund of anecdote — are unexceptionable in man- 
ners and appearance — and yet we cannot make up our minds 
to like them: we are not glad to see them, nor sorry when they 
go away. Our familiarity with them, however great, wants the 



ON DISAGREEABLE PEOPLE 193 

principle of cement, which is a certain appearance of frank 
cordiahty and social enjoyment. They have no pleasure in 
the subjects of their own thoughts, and therefore can com- 
municate none to others. There is a dry, husky, grating 
manner — a pettiness of detail — a tenaciousness of par- 5 
ticulars, however trifling or unpleasant —a disposition to 
cavil — an aversion to enlarged and liberal views of things — 
in short, a hard, painful, unbending inatter-of-factness, from 
which the spirit and effect are banished, and the letter only is 
attended to, which makes it impossible to sympathise with 10 
their discourse. To make conversation interesting or agree- 
able, there is required either the habitual tone of good com- 
pany, which gives a favourable colouring to every thing — • 
or the warmth and enthusiasm of genius, which, though 
it may occasionally offend or be thrown off its guard, makes 15 
amends by its rapturous flights, and flings a glancing light 
upon all things. The literal and dogged style of conversation 
resembles that of a French picture, or its mechanical fidelity 
is like evidence given in a court of justice, or a police report. 

From the literal to the plain-spoken, the transition is easy. 20 
The most efficient weapon of offense is truth. Those who 
deal in dry and repulsive matters-of-fact, tire out their friends; 
those who blurt out hard and home truths, make themselves 
mortal enemies wherever they come. There are your blunt, 
honest creatures, who omit no opportunity of letting you know 25 
their minds, and are sure to tell you all the ill, and conceal all 
the good they hear of you. They would not flatter you for 
the world, and to caution you against the malice of others, 
they think the province of a friend. This is not candour, but 
impudence; and yet they think it odd you are not charmed 30 
with their unreserved communicativeness of disposition. 
Gossips and tale-bearers, on the contrary, who supply the 
tittle-tattle of the neighborhood, flatter you to your face, and 
laugh at you behind your back, are welcome and agreeable 
guests in all companies. Though you know it will be your 35 
turn next, yet for the sake of the immediate gratification, 
you are contented to pay your share of the public tax upon 
character, and are better pleased with the falsehoods that 



194 PHILOSOPHY AND REFLECTION 

never reach your ears, than with the truths that others (less 
complaisant and more sincere) utter to your face — so 
short-sighted and willing to be imposed upon is our self-love! 
There is a man who has the air of not being convinced with- 
5 out an argument : you avoid him as if he were a lion in your 
path. There is another, who asks you fifty questions as to 
the commonest things you advance: you would sooner pardon 
a fellow who held a pistol to your breast and demanded your 
money. No one regards a turnpike-keeper, or a custom-house 

10 officer, with a friendly eye : he who stops you in an excursion 
of fancy, or ransacks the articles of your belief obstinately 
and churlishly, to distinguish the spurious from the genuine, 
is still more your foe. These inquisitors and cross-examiners 
upon system make ten enemies for every controversy in 

15 which they engage. The world dread nothing so much as 
being convinced of their errors. In doing them this piece of 
service, you make war equally on their prejudices, their in- 
terests, their pride, and indolence. You not only set up for 
a superiority of understanding over them, which they hate, 

20 but you deprive them of their ordinary grounds of action, 
their topics of discourse, of their confidence in themselves, 
and those to whom they have been accustomed to look up for 
instruction and advice. It is making children of them. 
You unhinge all their established opinions and trains of 

25 thought; and after leaving them in this listless, vacant, un- 
settled state — dissatisfied with their own notions and shocked 
at yours — you expect them to court and be delighted with 
your company, because, forsooth, you have only expressed 
your sincere and conscientious convictions. Mankind are 

30 not deceived by professions, unless they choose. They think 
that this pill of true doctrine, however it may be gilded over, 
is full of gall and bitterness to them; and, again, it is a maxim 
of which the vulgar are firmly persuaded, that plain-speaking 
(as it is called) is, nine parts in ten, spleen and self-opinion; 

35 and the other part, perhaps, honesty. Those who will not 
abate an inch in argument, and are always seeking to recover 
the wind of you, are, in the eye of the world, disagreeable, 
unconscionable people, who ought to be sent to Coventry, or 



ON DISAGREEABLE PEOPLE 195 

left to wrangle by themselves. No persons, however, are 
more averse to contradiction than these same dogmatists. 
What shows our susceptibility on this point is, that there is 
no flattery so adroit or effectual as that of implicit assent. 
An3^one, however mean his capacity or ill-qualified to judge, 5 
who gives way to all our sentiments, and never seems to think 
but as we do, is indeed an alter idem — another. self ; and we 
admit him without scruple into our entire confidence, ''yea, 
into our heart of hearts." 

It is the same in books. Those which, under the disguise 10 
of plain-speakmg, vent paradoxes, and set their faces against 
the common sense of mankind, are neither "the volumes 

"that enrich the shops, 

That pass with approbation through the land;" 

nor, I fear, can it be added — 15 

"That bring their authors an immortal fame." 

They excite a clamour and opposition at first, and are in 
general soon consigned to oblivion. Even if the opinions are 
in the end adopted, the authors gain little by it, and their 
names remain in their original obloquy; for the public will 20 
own no obligations to such ungracious benefactors. In like 
manner, there are many books written in a very delightful 
vein, though with little in them, and that are accordingly 
popular. Their principle is to please, and not to offend; 
and they succeed in both objects. We are contented with 25 
the deference shown to our feelings for the time, and grant 
a truce both to wit and wisdom. The ''courteous reader" 
and the good-natured author are well matched in this in- 
stance, and find their account in mutual tenderness and for- 
bearance to each other's infirmities. I am not sure that 30 
Walton's Angler is not a book of this last description — 

"That dallies with the innocence of thought, 
Like the old age." 

Hobbes and Mandeville are in the opposite extreme, and have 
met with a correspondent fate. The Taller and Spectator are 35 
in the golden mean, carry instruction as far as it can go 



196 PHILOSOPHY AND REFLECTION 

without shocking, and give the most exquisite pleasure with- 
out one particle of pain. "Desire to please, and you loill in- 
fallibly please," is a maxim equally applicable to the study or 
the drawing-room. Thus also we see actors of very small 
5 pretensions, and who have scarce any other merit than that 
of being on good terms with themselves, and in high good 
humour with their parts (though they hardly understand a 
word of them), who are universal favourites with the audience. 
Others, who are masters of their art, and in whom no slip or 

10 flaw can be detected, you have no pleasure in seeing, from 
something dry, repulsive, and unconciliating in their manner; 
and you almost hate the very mention of their names, as an 
unavailing appeal to your candid decision in their favour, and 
as taxing you with injustice for refusing it. 

15 We may observe persons who seem to take a peculiar delight 
in the disagreeable. They catch all sorts of uncouth tones and 
gestures, the manners and dialect of clowns and hoydens, and 
aim at vulgarity as desperately as others ape gentihty. 
[This is what is often understood by a love of low life.] They 

20 say the most unwarrantable things, without meaning or 
feeling what they say. What startles or shocks other people 
is to them a sport — an amusing excitement — a fillip to their 
constitutions; and from the bluntness of their perceptions, 
and a certain wilfulness of spirit, not being able to enter into 

25 the refined and agreeable, they make a merit of despising 
everj^hing of the kind. Masculme women, for example, are 
those who, not being distinguished by the charms and deli- 
cacy of the sex, affect a superiority over it by throwing aside 
all decorum. We also find another class, who continually 

30 do and say what they ought not, and what they do not 
intend, and who are governed almost entirely by an in- 
stinct of absurdity. Owing to a perversity of imagination or 
irritability of nerve, the idea that a thing is improper acts as 
a provocation to it: the fear of committing a blunder is so 

35 strong, that in their agitation they bolt out whatever is upper- 
most in their minds, before they are aware of the conse- 
quence. The dread of something wrong haunts and rivets 
their attention to it; and an uneasy, morbid apprehensive- 



ON DISAGREEABLE PEOPLE 197 

iiess of temper takes away their self-possession, and hurries 
them into tiie very mistakes they are most anxicns to avoid. 
If we look about us, and ask who are the agreeable and 
disagreeable people in the world, we shall see that it does not 
depend on their virtues or vices — their understanding or stu- 5 
pidity — but as much on the degree of pleasure or pain they 
seem to feel in ordinary social intercourse. What signify all 
the good qualities anyone possesses, if he is none the better 
for them himself? If the cause is so delightful, the effect 
ought to be so too. We enjoy a friend's society only in pro- 10 
portion as he is satisfied with ours. Even wit, however it 
may startle, is only agreeable as it is sheathed in good-hu- 
mour. There are a kind of mtellectual stammerers, who are 
deUvered of their good things with pain and effort; and con- 
sequently what costs them such evident uneasiness does not 15 
impart unmixed delight to the bystanders. There are those, 
on the contrary, whose sallies cost them nothing — who 
abound in a flow of pleasantry and good-humour; and who 
float down the stream with them carelessly and triumphantly, 

"Wit at the helm, and Pleasure at the prow." 20 

Perhaps it may be said of English wit in general, that it too 
much resembles pointed lead; after all, there is something 
heavy and dull in it ! The race of small wits are not the least 
agreeable people in the world. They have their little joke to 
themselves, enjoy it, and do not set up any preposterous pre- 25 
tensions to thwart the current of our self-love. Toad-eating 
is accounted a thriving profession; and a butt, according to 
the Spectator, is a highly useful member of society — as one 
who takes whatever is said of him in good part, and as neces- 
sary to conduct off the spleen and superfluous petulance of 30 
the company. Opposed to these are the swaggering buUies 
— the licensed wits — the free-thinkers — the loud talkers, 
who, in the jockey phrase, have lost their mouths, and cannot 
be reined in by any regard to decency or common sense. 
The more obnoxious the subject, the more are they charmed 35 
with it, converting their want of feeling into a proof of su- 
periority to vulgar prejudice and squeamish affectation. 



198 PHILOSOPHY AND REFLECTION 

But there is an unseemly exposure of the mind, as well as of 
the body. There are some objects that shock the sense, and 
cannot with propriety be mentioned: there are naked truths 
that offend the mind, and ought to be kept out of sight as 
5 much as possible. For human nature cannot bear to be too 
hardly pressed upon. One of these cynical truisms, when 
brought forward to the world, may be forgiven as a slip of the 
pen; a succession of them, denoting a deliberate purpose and 
malice prepense, must ruin any writer. Lord Byron had got 

10 into an irregular course of these a little before his death — 
seemed desirous, in imitation of Mr. Shelley, to run the gaunt- 
let of public obloquy — and, at the same time, wishing to 
screen himself from the censure he defied, dedicated his Cain 
to Sir Walter Scott — a pretty godfather to such a bantUng! 

15 Some persons are of so teazing and fidgetty a turn of mind, 
that they do not give you a moment's rest. Everything goes 
wrong with them. They complain of a headache or the 
weather. They take up a book, and lay it down again — 
venture an opinion, and retract it before they have half done 

20 — offer to serve you, and prevent someone else from doing it. 
If you dine with them at a tavern, in order to be more at your 
ease, the fish is too little done — the sauce is not the right one; 
they ask for a sort of wine which they think is not to be had, 
or if it is, after some trouble, procured, do not touch it; they 

25 give the waiter fifty contradictory orders, and are restless and 
sit on thorns the whole of dinner-time. All this is owing to a 
want of robust health, and of a strong spirit of enjoyment; 
it is a fastidious habit of mind, produced by a valetudinary 
habit of body: they are out of ports with every thing, and of 

30 course their ill-humour and captiousness communicates itself 
to you, who are as little delighted with them as they are with 
other things. Another sort of people, equally objectionable 
with this helpless class, who are disconcerted by a shower of 
ram or stopped by an insect's wing, are those who, in the 

35 opposite spirit, will have everything their own way, and 
carry all before them — who cannot brook the slightest 
shadow of opposition — who are always in the heat of an 
argument — who knit their brows and clench their teeth m 



ON DISAGREEABLE PEOPLE 199 

some speculative discussion, as if they were engaged in a 
personal quarrel — and who, though successful over almost 
every competitor, seem still to resent the very offer of resist- 
ance to their supposed authority, and are as angry as if they 
had sustained some premeditated mjury. There is an im- 5 
patience of temper and an intolerance of opinion in this 
that conciliates neither our affection nor esteem. To such 
persons nothing appears of any moment but the indulgence 
of a domineering intellectual superiority to the disregard 
and discomfiture of their own and everybodj^ else's comfort. 10 
Mounted on an abstract proposition, they trample on every 
courtesy and decency of behaviour; and though, perhaps, they 
do not intend the gross personalities they are guilty of, yet 
they cannot be acquitted of a want of due consideration for 
others, and of an intolerable egotism in the support of truth 15 
and justice. You may hear one of these Quixotic declaimers 
pleading the cause of humanity in a voice of thunder, or 
expatiating on the beauty of a Guido with features distorted 
with rage and scorn. This is not a very amiable or edifying 
spectacle. 20 

There are persons who cannot make friends. Who are 
they? Those who cannot be friends. It is not the want of 
understanding or good nature, of entertaining or useful 
qualities, that you complain of: on the contrary, they have 
probably many points of attraction; but they have one that 25 
neutralises all these — they care nothing about you, and are 
neither the better nor worse for what you think of them. 
They manifest no joy at your approach; and when you leave 
them, it is with a feeling that they can do just as well with- 
out you. This is not suUenness, nor indifference, nor absence 30 
of mind; but they are intent solely on their own thoughts, and 
you are merely one of the subjects they exercise them upon. 
They live in society as in a solitude; and, however their 
brain works, their pulse beats neither faster nor slower for the 
common accidents of life. There is, therefore, something cold 35 
and repulsive in the air that is about them — like that of 
marble. In a word, they are modern philosophers; and the 
modem philosopher is what the pedant was of old — a being 



200 PHILOSOPHY AND REFLECTION 

who lives in a world of his own, and has no correspondence 
with this. It is not that such persons have not done you 
services — you acknowledge it; it is not that they have said 
severe things of you — you submit to it as a necessary evil; 
Shut it is the cool manner in which the whole is done that 
annoys you — the speculating upon you, as if you were 
nobody — the regarding you, with a view to an experiment 
in corpore vili — the principle of dissection — the determi- 
nation to spare no blemishes — to cut you down to your real 

10 standard; — in short, the utter absence of the partiahty of 
friendship, the blind enthusiasm of affection, or the delicacy of 
common decency, that whether they ''hew you as a carcass 
fit for hounds, or carve you as a dish fit for the gods," the 
operation on your feelings and your sense of obhgation is 

15 just the same; and, whether they are demons or angels in 
themselves, you wish them equally at the devil! 

Other persons of worth and sense give way to mere violence 
of temperament (with which the understanding has nothing to 
do) — are burnt up with a perpetual fury — repel and throw 

20 you to a distance by their restless, whirling motion — so that 
you dare not go near them, or feel as uneasy in their company 
as if you stood on the edge of a volcano. They have their 
tempora molliafandi; but then what a stir may you not expect 
the next moment ! Nothing is less inviting or less comfortable 

25 than this state of uncertainty and apprehension. Then there 
are those who never approach you without the most alarming 
advice or information, telling you that you are in a dying 
way, or that your affairs are on the point of ruin, by way of 
disburthening their consciences; and others, who give you 

30 to understand much the same thing as a good joke, out of 
sheer impertinence, constitutional vivacity, and want of 
something to say. All these, it must be confessed, are disa- 
greeable people; and you repay their over-anxiety or total 
forgetfulness of you, by a determination to cut them as 

35 speedily as possible. We meet with instances of persons 
who overpower you by a sort of boisterous mirth and rude 
animal spirits, with whose ordinary state of excitement it is as 
impossible to keep up as with that of anyone really intoxi- 



ON DISAGREEABLE PEOPLE 201 

cated; and with others who seem scarce aUve — who take 
no pleasure or interest in anything — who are born to ex- 
emplify the maxim, 

"Not to admire is all the art I know 
To make men happy, or to keep them so," — 5 

and whose mawkish insensibility or sullen scorn are equally 
annoying. In general, all people brought up in remote country 
places, where life is crude and harsh — all sectaries — all par- 
tisans of a losing cause, are discontented and disagreeable. 
Commend me above all to the Westminster School of Reform, lo 
whose blood runs as cold in their veins as the torpedo's, and 
whose touch jars like it. Catholics are, upon the whole, 
more amiable than Protestants — foreigners than English 
people. Among ourselves, the Scotch, as a nation, are par- 
ticularly disagreeable. They hate every appearance of com- 15 
fort themselves, and refuse it to others. Their climate, 
their religion, and their habits are equally averse to pleasure. 
Their manners are either distinguished by a fawning sycoph- 
ancy (to gain their o^vn ends, and conceal their natural defects) 
that makes one sick; or by a morose, unbending callousness, 20 
that makes one shudder. I had forgot to mention two other 
descriptions of persons who fall under the scope of this essay : 
— those who take up a subject and run on with it intermin- 
ably, without knowing whether their hearers care one word 
about it, or in the least minding what reception their oratory 25 
meets with — these are pretty generally voted bores (mostly 
German ones) ; — and others, who may be designated as 
practical paradox-mongers — who discard the ''milk of human 
kindness," and an attention to common observances, from all 
their actions, as effeminate and puling — who wear a white hat 30 
as a mark of superior understanding, and carry home a hand- 
kerchief full of mushrooms in the top of it as an original dis- 
covery — who give you crawfish for supper instead of lobsters; 
seek their company in a garret, and over a gin-bottle, to 
avoid the imputation of affecting genteel society; and discard 35 
them after a term of years, and warn others against them, 
as being honest fellows, which is thought a vulgar prejudice. 



202 PHILOSOPHY AND REFLECTION 

This is carrying the harsh and repulsive even beyond the 
disagreeable — to the hateful. Such persons are generally 
people of commonplace understandings, obtuse feelings, and 
inordinate vanity. They are formidable if they get you in 
5 their power — otherwise, they are only to be laughed at. 
There are a vast number who are disagreeable from mean- 
ness of spirit, downright insolence, from slovenliness of dress 
or disgusting tricks, from folly or ignorance: but these causes 
are positive moral or physical defects, and I only meant to 

10 speak of that repulsiveness of manners which arises from want 
of tact and sympathy with others. So far of friendship; a 
word, if I durst, of love. Gallantry to women (the sure road 
to their favour) is nothing but the appearance of extreme 
devotion to all their wants and wishes — a delight in their 

15 satisfaction, and a confidence in yourself, as being able to 
contribute towards it. The slightest indifference with regard 
to them, or distrust of yourself, are equally fatal. The 
amiable is the voluptuous in looks, manner, or words. No 
face that exhibits this kind of expression — whether lively or 

20 serious, obvious or suppressed, will be thought ugly — no 
address, awkward — no lover who approaches every woman he 
meets as his mistress, will be unsuccessful. Diffidence and 
awkwardness are the two antidotes to love. 

To please universally, we must be pleased with ourselves 

25 and others. There should be a tinge of the coxcomb, an oil of 
self-complacency, an anticipation of success — there should be 
no gloom, no moroseness, no shyness — in short, there should 
be very little of an Englishman, and a good deal of a French- 
man. But though, I believe, this is the receipt, we are none 

30 the nearer making use of it. It is impossible for those who 
are naturally disagreeable ever to become otherwise. This 
is some consolation, as it may save a world of useless pains 
and anxiety. "Desire to please, and you will infallihly 
please, ^^ is a true maxim; but it does not follow that it is in 

35 the power of all to practice it. A vain man, who thinks he is 
endeavouring to please, is only endeavouring to shine, and is 
still farther from the mark. An irritable man, who puts a 
check upon himself, only grows dull, and loses spirit to be 



ON DISAGREEABLE PEOPLE 203 

anything. Good temper and a happy spirit (which are the 
indispensable requisites) can no more be commanded jthan 
good health or good looks; and though the plain and sickly 
need not distort their features, and may abstain from excess, 
this is all they can do. The utmost a disagreeable person can 5 
do is to hope to be less disagreeable than with care and study 
he might become, and to pass unnoticed in society. With 
this negative character he should be contented, and may 
build his fame and happiness on other things. 

I will conclude with a character of men who neither please 10 
nor aspire to please anybody, and who can come in nowhere so 
properly as at the fag-end of an essay: — I mean that class of 
discontented but amusing persons, who are infatuated with 
their own ill success, and reduced to despair by a lucky turn 
in their favour. While all goes well, they are like fish out of 15 
water. They have no reliance on or sympathy with their 
good fortune, and look upon it as a momentary delusion. Let 
a doubt be thrown on the question, and they begin to be full 
of lively apprehensions again; let all their hopes vanish, and 
they feel themselves on firm ground once more. From want 20 
of spirit or of habit, their imaginations cannot rise above the 
low ground of humility — cannot reflect the gay, flaunting 
tints of the fancy — flag and droop into despondency — and 
can neither indulge the expectation, nor employ the means of 
success. Even when it is within their reach, they dare not 25 
lay hands upon it; and shrink from unlooked-for bursts of 
prosperity, as something of which they are both ashamed and 
unworthy. The class of croakers here spoken of are less de- 
lighted at other people's misfortunes than their own. Their 
neighbours may have some pretensions — they have none. 30 
Querulous complaints and anticipations of pleasure are the 
food on which they live; and they at last acquire a passion 
for that which is the favourite theme of their thoughts, and 
can no more do without it than without the pinch of snuff with 
which they season their conversation, and enliven the pauses 35 
of their daily prognostics. 



ON FAMILIAR STYLE 

It is not easy to write a familiar style. Many people mis- 
take a familiar for a vulgar style, and suppose that to write 
without affectation is to write at random. On the contrary, 
there is nothing that requires more precision, and, if I may so 
5 say, pmnty of expression, than the style I am speaking of. 
It utterly rejects not only all unmeaning pomp, but all low, 
cant phrases, and loose, unconnected, slipshod allusions. It 
is not to take the first word that offers, but the best word in 
common use; it is not to throw words together in any com- 

10 binations we please, but to follow and avail ourselves of the 
true idiom of the language. To write a genuine familiar or 
truly English style, is to write as anyone would speak in 
common conversation, who had a thorough conmiand and 
choice of words, or who could discourse with ease, force, and 

15 perspicuity, setting aside all pedantic and oratorical flourishes. 
Or to give another illustration, to write naturally is the same 
thing in regard to common conversation, as to read naturally 
is in regard to common speech. It does not follow that it is 
an easy thing to give the true accent and inflection to the 

20 words you utter, because you do not attempt to rise above 
the level of ordinary life and colloquial speaking. You do 
not assume indeed the solemnity of the pulpit, or the tone of 
stage-declamation : neither are you at liberty to gabble on at 
a venture, without emphasis or discretion, or to resort to 

25 vulgar dialect or clownish pronunciation. You must steer 
a middle course. You are tied down to a given and ap- 
propriate articulation, which is determined by the habitual 
associations between sense and sound, and which you can 
only hit by entering into the author's meaning, as you must 

30 find the proper words and style to express yourself by fixing 
your thoughts on the subject you have to write about. Any- 

204 



ON FAMILIAR STYLE 205 

one may mouth out a passage with a theatrical cadence, or 
get upon stilts to tell his thoughts: but to write or speak with 
propriety and simplicity is a more difficult task. Thus it is 
easy to affect a pompous style, to use a word twice as big as 
the thing you want to express: it is not so easy to pitch upon 5 
the very word that exactly fits it. Out of eight or ten words 
equally common, equally intelligible, with nearly equal pre- 
tensions, it is a matter of some nicety and discrimination to 
pick out the very one, the preferableness of which is scarcely 
perceptible, but decisive. The reason why I object to Dr. 10 
Johnson's style is, that there is no discrimination, no selec- 
tion, no variety in it. He uses none but "tall, opaque words, " 
taken from the "first row of the rubric:" — words with the 
greatest number of syllables, or Latin phrases with merely 
English terminations. If a fine style depended on this sort 15 
of arbitrary pretension, it would be fair to judge of an author's 
elegance by the measurement of his words, and the substitu- 
tion of foreign circumlocutions (with no precise associations) 
for the mother-tongue.^ How simple is it to be dignified 
without ease, to be pompous without meaning! Surely, it is 20 
but a mechanical rule for avoiding what is low to be always 
pedantic and affected. It is clear you cannot use a vulgar 
English word, if you never use a common English word at all. 
A fine tact is shown in adhering to those which are perfectly 
common, and yet never falling into any expressions which are 25 
debased by disgusting circumstances, or which owe their sig- 
nification and point to technical or professional allusions. A 
truly natural or familiar style can never be quaint or vulgar, 
for this reason, that it is of universal force and applicability, 
and that quaintness and vulgarity arise out of the immediate 30 
connection of cettain words with coarse and disagreeable, or 
with confined ideas. The last form what we understand by 
cant or slang phrases. To give an example of what is not 
very clear in the general statement. I should say that the 

^ I have heard of such a thing as an author who makes it a rule 35 
never to admit a monosyllable into his vapid verse. Yet the charm 
and sweetness of Marlowe's lines depended often on their being made 
up almost entirely of monosyllables. 



206 THE ART OF PROSE 

phrase To cut with a knife, or To cut a piece of wood, is per- 
fectly free from vulgarity, because it is perfectly common; 
but to cut an acquaintance is not quite unexceptionable, be- 
cause it is not perfectly common or intelligible, and has 
5 hardly yet escaped out of the limits of slang phraseology. 
I should hardly therefore use the word in this sense without 
putting it in italics as a license of expression, to be received 
cum grano salis. All provincial or bye-phrases come under 
the same mark of reprobation — all such as the writer trans- 

lOfers to the page from his fireside or a particular coterie, or 
that he invents for his own sole use and convenience. I con- 
ceive that words are like money, not the worse for bemg com- 
mon, but that it is the stamp of custom alone that gives them 
circulation or value. I am fastidious in this respect, and 

15 would almost as soon coin the currency of the realm as 
counterfeit the King's English. I never invented or gave a 
new and unauthorised meaning to any word but one single 
one (the term impersonal applied to feelings) and that was in 
an abstruse metaphysical discussion to express a very difficult 

20 distinction. I have been (I know) loudly accused of revel- 
ling in vulgarisms and broken English. I cannot speak to 
that point: but so far I plead guilty to the determined use of 
acknowledged idioms and common elliptical expressions. I 
am not sure that the critics in question know the one from the 

25 other, that is, can distinguish any medium between formal 
pedantry and the most barbarous solecism. As an author, I 
endeavour to employ plain words and popular modes of con- 
struction, as were I a chapman and dealer, I should com- 
mon weights and measures. 

30 The proper force of words lies not in the words themselves, 
but in their application. A word may be a fine-sounding 
word, of an unusual length, and very imposing from its learn- 
ing and novelty, and yet in the connection in which it is in- 
troduced, may be quite pointless and irrelevant. It is not 

35 pomp or pretension, but the adaptation of the expression to 
the idea that clenches a writer's meaning: — as it is not the 
size or glossiness of the materials, but their being fitted each 
to its place, that gives strength to the arch; or as the pegs and 



ON FAMILIAR STYLE 207 

nails are as necessary to the support of the building as the 
larger timbers, and more so than the mere showy, unsubstan- 
tial ornaments. I hate anything that occupies more space 
than it is worth. I hate to see a load of band-boxes go along 
the street, and I hate to see a parcel of big words without 5 
anything in them. A person who does not deliberately dis- 
pose of all his thoughts alike in cumbrous draperies and flimsy 
disguises, may strike out twenty varieties of familiar every- 
day language, each coming somewhat nearer to the feeling 
he wants to convey, and at last not hit upon that particular 10 
and only one, which may be said to be identical with the 
exact impression in his mind. This would seem to show that 
Mr. Cobbett is hardly right in saying that the first word that 
occurs is always the best. It may be a very good one; and 
yet a better may present itself on reflection or from time to 15 
time. It should be suggested naturaUy, however, and spon- 
taneously, from a fresh and lively conception of the subject. 
We seldom succeed by trying at improvement, or by merely 
substituting one word for another that we are not satis- 
fied with, as we cannot recollect the name of a place or person 20 
by merely plaguing ourselves about it. We wander farther 
from the point by persisting in a wrong scent; but it starts 
up accidentally in the memory when we least expected it, by 
touching some link in the chain of previous association. 

There are those who hoard up and make a cautious display 25 
of nothing but rich and rare phraseology ; — ancient medals, 
obscure coins, and Spanish pieces of eight. They are very 
curious to inspect; but I myseK would neither offer nor take 
them in the course of exchange. A sprinkling of archaisms is 
not amiss; but a tissue of obsolete expressions is more fit /or 30 
keep than wear. I do not say I would not use any phrase that 
had been brought into fashion before the middle or the end 
of the last century; but I should be shy of using any that had 
not been employed by any approved author during the whole 
of that time. Words, like clothes, get old-fashioned, or mean 35 
and ridiculous, when they have been for some time laid aside. 
Mr. Lamb is the only imitator of old English style I can read 
with pleasure; and he is so thoroughly imbued with the spirit 



208 THE ART OF PROSE 

of his authors, that the idea of imitation is almost done away. 
There is an inward miction, a marrowy vein both in the 
thought and feehng, an intuition, deep and hvely, of his sub- 
ject, that carries off any quaintness or awkwardness arising 
5 from an antiquated style and dress. The matter is completely 
his own, though the manner is assumed. Perhaps his ideas 
are altogether so marked and individual, as to require their 
point and pungency to be neutralised by the affectation of a 
singular but traditional form of conveyance. Tricked out 

10 in the prevailing costume, they would probably seem more 
startling and out of the way. The old English authors, 
Burton, Fuller, Coryate, Sir Thomas Browne, are a kind of 
mediators between us and the more eccentric and whimsical 
modern, reconciling us to his peculiarities. I do not however 

15 know how far this is the case or not, till he condescends to 
write like one of us, I must confess that what I like best of 
his papers under the signature of Elia (still I do not presume, 
amidst such excellence, to decide what is most excellent) is the 
account of Mrs. Battle's Opinions on Whist, which is also the 

20 most free from obsolete allusions and turns of expression — 

" A well of native English undefiled. " 

To those acquainted with his admired prototypes, these 
Essays of the ingenious and highly gifted author have the 
same sort of charm and relish, that Erasmus's Colloquies or a 

25 fine piece of modern Latin have to the classical scholar. 
Certainly, I do not know any borrowed pencil that has more 
power or felicity of execution than the one of which I have 
here been speaking. 

It is as easy to write a gaudy style without ideas, as it is to 

30 spread a pallet of showy colours, or to smear in a flaunting 
transparency. "What do you read?" — ''Words, words, 
words." — "What is the matter?" — " Nothing/' it might 
be answered. The florid style is the reverse of the familiar. 
The last is employed as an unvarnished medium to convey 

35 ideas; the first is resorted to as a spangled veil to conceal the 
want of them. When there is nothing to be set down but 
words, it costs little to have them fine. Look through the 



ON FAMILIAR STYLE 209 

dictionary, and cull out a florilegium, rival the tuHpomania. 
Rouge high enough, and never mind the natural complexion. 
The vulgar, who are not in the secret, will admire the look of 
preternatural health and vigour; and the fashionable, who 
regard only appearances, will be delighted with the imposition. 5 
Keep to your somiding generalities, your tinkling phrases, and 
all will be well. Swell out an unmeaning truism to a perfect 
tympany of style. A thought, a distinction is the rock on 
which all this brittle cargo of verbiage splits at once. Such 
writers have merely verbal imaginations, that retain nothing lo 
but words. Or their puny thoughts have dragon-wings, all 
green and gold. They soar far above the vulgar failing of the 
sermo humi obrepens — their most ordinary speech is never 
short of an hyperbole, splendid, imposing, vague, incom- 
prehensible, magniloquent, a cento of sounding common- 15 
places. If some of us, whose "ambition is more lowly," 
pry a httle too narrowly into nooks and corners to pick up a 
number of "unconsidered trifles," they never once direct their 
eyes or lift their hands to seize on any but the most gorgeous, 
tarnished, threadbare patchwork set of phrases, the left-off 20 
finery of poetic extravagance, transmitted down through suc- 
cessive generations of barren pretenders. If they criticise 
actors and actresses, a huddled phantasmagoria of feathers, 
spangles, floods of light, and oceans of sound float before their 
morbid sense, which they paint in the style of Ancient Pistol. 25 
Not a glimpse can you get of the merits or defects of the per- 
formers : they are hidden in a profusion of barbarous epithets 
and wilful rhodomontade. Our hypercritics are not thinking 
of these little fantoccini beings — 

"That strut and fret their hour upon the stage" — 30 

but of tall phantoms of words, abstractions, genera and species, 
sweeping clauses, periods that unite the Poles, forced alliter- 
ations, astounding antitheses — 

"And on their pens Fustian sits plumed." 

If they describe kings and queens, it is an Eastern pageant. 35 
The Coronation at either House is nothing to it. We get at 



210 THE ART OF PROSE 

four repeated images — a curtain, a throne, a sceptre, and a 
foot-stool. These are with them the wardrobe of a lofty- 
imagination; and they turn their servile strains to servile 
uses. Do we read a description of pictures? It is not a 

5 reflection of tones and hues which ''nature's own sweet and 
cunning hand laid on," but piles of precious stones, rubies, 
pearls, emeralds, Golconda's mines, and all the blazonry of 
art. Such persons are in fact besotted with words, and their 
brains are turned with the glittering, but empty and sterile 

10 phantoms of thmgs. Personifications, capital letters, seas 
of sunbeams, visions of glory, shining inscriptions, the figures 
of a transparency, Britannia with her shield, or Hope leaning 
on an anchor, make up their stock in trade. They may be 
considered as hieroglyphical writers. Images stand out in 

15 their minds isolated and important merely in themselves, 
without any ground-work of feeling — there is no context in 
their imaginations. Words affect them in the same way, by 
the mere sound, that is, by their possible, not by their actual 
application to the subject in hand. They are fascinated by 

20 first appearances, and have no sense of consequences. Noth- 
ing more is meant by them than meets the ear: they under- 
stand or feel nothing more than meets their eye. The web 
and texture of the universe, and of the heart of man, is a 
mystery to them: they have no faculty that strikes a chord in 

25 unison with it. They cannot get beyond the daubings of 
fancy, the varnish of sentiment. Objects are not linked to 
feelings, words to things, but images revolve in splendid mock- 
ery, words represent themselves in their strange rhapsodies. 
The categories of such a mind are pride and ignorance — pride 

30 in outside show, to which they sacrifice everything, and igno- 
rance of the true worth and hidden structure both of words 
and things. With a sovereign contempt for what is familiar 
and natural, they are the slaves of vulgar affectation — of a 
routine of high-flown phrases. Scorning to imitate realities, 

35 they are unable to invent anything, to strike out one original 
idea. They are not copyists of nature, it is true: but they 
are the poorest of all plagiarists, the plagiarists of words. 
All is far-fetched, dear-bought, artificial, oriental in subject 



ON FAMILIAR STYLE 211 

and allusion: all is mechanical, conventional, vapid, formal, 
pedantic in style and execution. They startle and confound 
the understanding of the reader, by the remoteness and ob- 
scurity of their illustrations: they soothe the ear by the mo- 
notony of the same everlasting round of circuitous metaphors. 5 
They are the mock-school in poetry and prose. They flounder 
about between fustian in expression, and bathos in sentiment. 
They tantalise the fancy, but never reach the head nor touch 
the heart. Their Temple of Fame is like a shadowy structure 
raised by Dullness to Vanity, or like Cowper's description of 10 
the Empress of Russia's palace of ice, as "worthless as in 
show 'twas glittering" — 

"It smiled, and it was cold!" 



ON THE PROSE-STYLE OF POETS 

"Do you read or sing? If you sing, you sing very ill." 

I HAVE but an indifferent opinion of the prose-style of 
poets: not that it is not sometimes good, nay, excellent; but 
it is never the better, and generally the worse, from the habit 

5 of writing verse. Poets are winged animals, and can cleave 
the air, like birds, with ease to themselves and delight to the 
beholders; but hke those '' feathered, two-legged things," 
when they light upon the ground of prose and matter-of-fact, 
they seem not to have the same use of their feet. 

10 What is a little extraordinary, there is a want of rhythmus 
and cadence in what they write without the help of metri- 
cal rules. Like persons who have been accustomed to sing to 
music, they are at a loss in the absence of the habitual accom- 
paniment and guide to their judgment. Their style halts, 

15 totters, is loose, disjointed, and without expressive pauses or 
rapid movements. The measured cadence and regular sing- 
song of rhyme or blank verse have destroyed, as it were, their 
natural ear for the mere characteristic harmony which ought 
to subsist between the sound and the sense. I should almost 

20 guess the Author of Waverley to be a writer of ambling verses 
from the desultory vacillation and want of firmness in the 
march of his style. There is neither inomentum nor elasticity 
in it; I mean as to the score, or effect upon the ear. He has 
improved since in his other works: to be sure, he has had 

25 practice enough.^ Poets either get into this incoherent, 
undermined, shuffling style, made up of ^'unpleasing flats and 
sharps," of unaccountable starts and pauses, of doubtful 

1 Is it not a collateral proof that Sir Walter Scott is the Author of 
Waverley, that ever since these novels began to appear, his Muse has 
been silent, till the publication of Halidon-Hill? 

212 



ON THE PROSE-STYLE OF POETS 213 

odds and ends, flirted about like straws in a ^ust of wind; 
or, to avoid it and steady themselves, mount into a sustained 
and measm'ed prose (like the translation of Ossian's Poems, 
or some parts of Shaftesbury's Characteristics) which is more 
odious still, and as bad as being at sea in a calm. Dr. John- 5 
son's style (particularly in liis Rambler) is not free from the 
last objection. There is a tune in it, a mechanical recur- 
rence of the same rise and fall in the clauses of his sentences, 
independent of any reference to the meaning of the text, or 
progress or inflection of the sense. There is the alternate 10 
roll of his cumbrous cargo of words; his periods complete 
their revolutions at certain stated intervals, let the matter 
be longer or shorter, rough or smooth, round or square, dif- 
ferent or the same. This monotonous and balanced mode of 
composition may be compared to that species of portrait- 15 
painting which prevailed about a century ago, in which 
each face was cast in a regular and preconceived mould. The 
eyebrows were arched mathematically as if with a pair of 
compasses, and the distances between the nose and mouth, 
the forehead and chin, determined according to a ''foregone 20 
conclusion," and the features of the identical individual were 
afterwards accommodated to them, how they could I^ 

Home Tooke used to maintain that no one could write a 
good prose style who was not accustomed to express himself 
viva voce, or to talk in company. He argued that this was the 25 
fault of Addison's prose, and that its smooth, equable uni- 
formity, and want of sharpness and spirit, arose from his not 
having familiarised his ear to the sound of his own voice, or at 
least only among liis friends and admirers, where there was 
but little coUision, dramatic fluctuation, or sudden con- 30 
trariety of opinion to provoke animated discussion, and give 
birth to different intonations and lively transitions of speech. 
His style (in this view of it) was not indented, nor did it 
project from the surface. There was no stress laid on one 
word more than another — it did not hurry on or stop short, 35 
or sink or swell with the occasion: it was throughout equally 

1 See the portraits of Kneller, Richardson, and others. 



214 THE ART OF PROSE 

insipid, flowing, and harmonious, and had the effect of a 
studied recitation rather than of a natural discourse. This 
would not have happened (so the Member for Old Sarum 
contended) had Addison laid himself out to argue at his club, 
5 or to speak in public; for then his ear would have caught the 
necessary modulations of sound arising out of the feeling of 
the moment, and he would have transferred them uncon- 
sciously to paper. Much might be said on both sides of 
this question : ^ but Mr. Tooke was himself an unintentional 
10 confirmation of his own argument; for the tone of his written 
compositions is as flat and un aised as his manner of speaking 
was hard and dry. Of the poet it is said by some one, that 

"He murmurs by the running brooks 
A music sweeter than their own." 

15 On the contrary, the celebrated person just alluded to might 
be said to grind the sentences between his teeth which he after- 
wards committed to paper, and threw out crusts to the critics, 
bon-mots to the Electors of Westminster (as we throw bones 
to the dogs) without altering a muscle, and without the small- 

20 est tremulousness of voice or eye!^ I certainly so far agree 
with the above theory as to conceive that no style is worth a 
farthing that is not calculated to be read out, or that is not 
allied to spirited conversation: but I at the same time think 
the process of modulation and inflection may be quite as 

25 complete, or more so, without the external enunciation; 
and that an author had better try the effect of his sentences 
on his stomach than on his ear. He may be deceived by the 
last, not by the first. No person, I imagine, can dictate a 

^ Goldsmith was not a talker, though he blurted out his good 
30 things now and then: yet his style is gay and voluble enough. Pope 
was also a silent man; and his prose is timid and constrained, and his 
verse inclining to the monotonous. 

2 As a singular example of steadiness of nerves, Mr. Tooke on one 
occasion had got upon the table at a public dinner to return thanks 
35 for his health having been drunk. He held a bumper of wine in his 
hand, but he was received with considerable opposition by one party, 
and at the end of the disturbance, which lasted for a quarter of an 
hour, he found the wine glass still full to the brim. 



ON THE PROSE-STYLE OF POETS 215 

good style, or spout his own compositions with impunity. In 
the former case, he will flounder on before the sense or words 
are ready, sooner than suspend his voice in air; and in the 
latter, he can supply what intonation he pleases, without 
consulting his readers. Parliamentary speeches sometimes 5 
read well aloud; but we do not find, when such persons sit 
down to write, that the prose-style of public speakers and 
great orators is the best, most natural, or varied of all others. 
It has almost always either a professional twang, a mechanical 
rounding off, or else is stunted and unequal. Charles Fox 10 
was the most rapid and even hurried of speakers; but his 
written style halts and creeps slowly along the ground.^ 
A speaker is necessarily kept within bounds in expressing 
certain thmgs, or in pronouncing a certain number of words, 
by the limits of the breath or power of respiration: certain 15 
sounds are observed to join in harmoniously or happily with 
others: an emphatic phrase must not be placed where the 
power of utterance is enfeebled or exhausted, etc. All this 
must be attended to in wTiting (and will be so unconsciously 
by a practised hand), or there will be hiatus in manuscriptis. 20 
The words must be so arranged, in order to make an efficient 
readable style, as "to come trippingly off the tongue." 
Hence it seems that there is a natural measure of prose in 
the feeling of the subject and the power of expression in the 
voice, as there is an artificial one of verse in the number and 25 

^ I have been told, that when Sheridan was first introduced to Mr. 
Fox, what cemented an immediate intimacy between them was the 
following circumstance. Mr. Sheridan had been the night before to 
the House of Commons; and being asked what his impression was, 
said he had been principally struck with the difference of manner 30 
between Mr. Fox and Lord Stormont. The latter began by declar- 
ing in'a slow, solemn, drawling, nasal tone that "when he considered 
the enormity and the unconstitutional tendency of the measures just 
proposed, he was hurried away in a torrent of passion and a whirlwind 
of impetuosity," pausing between every word and syllable; while the 35 
first said (speaking with the rapidity of lightning, and with breath- 
less anxiety and impatience), that "such was the magnitude, such 
the importance, such the vital interest of this question, that he could 
not help imploring, he could not help adjuring the House to come to 
it with the utmost calmness, the utmost coolness, the utmost delibera- 40 
tion." This trait of discrimination instantly won Mr, Fox's heart. 



216 THE ART OF PROSE 

co-ordination of the syllables; and I conceive that the tram- 
mels of the last do not (where they have been long worn) 
greatly assist the freedom or the exactness of the first. 
Again, in poetry, from the restraints in many respects, a 

5 greater number of inversions, or a latitude in the transposition 
of words is allowed, which is not conformable to the strict laws 
of prose. Consequently, a poet will be at a loss, and flounder 
about for the common or (as we understand it) natural order 
of words in prose-composition. Dr. Johnson endeavoured to 

10 give an air of dignity and novelty to his diction by affecting 
the order of words usual in poetry. Milton's prose has not 
only this drawback, but it has also the disadvantage of being 
formed on a classic model. It is like a fine translation from 
the Latin; and indeed, he wrote originally in Latin. The 

15 frequency of epithets and ornaments, too, is a resource for 
which the poet finds it difficult to obtain an equivalent. A 
direct, or simple prose-style seems to him bald and flat; 
and instead of forcing an interest in the subject by severity of 
description and reasoning, he is repelled from it altogether by 

20 the absence of those obvious and meretricious allurements 
by which his senses and his imagination have been hitherto 
stimulated and dazzled. Thus there is often at the same time 
a want of splendour and a want of energy in what he writes, 
without the invocation of the Muse — invita Minervd. It 

25 is like setting a rope-dancer to perform a tumbler's tricks — 
the hardness of the ground jars his nerves; or it is the same 
thing as a painter's attempting to carve a block of marble 
for the first time — the coldness chills him, the colourless uni- 
formity distracts him, the precision of form demanded dis- 

30 heartens him. So in prose writing, the severity of composition 
required damps the enthusiasm, and cuts off the resources of 
the poet. He is looking for beauty when he should be seeking 
for truth; and aims at pleasure, which he can only communi- 
cate by increasing the sense of power in the reader. The poet 

35 spreads the colours of fancy, the illusions of his own mind, 
round every object, ad libitum; the prose-writer is compelled 
to extract his materials patiently, and bit by bit, from his 
subject. What he adds of ornament, what he borrows from 



ON THE PROSE-STYLE OF POETS 217 

the pencil, must be sparing, and judiciously inserted. The 
first pretends to nothing but the immediate indulgence of his 
feelings: the last has a remote practical purpose. The one 
strolls out into the adjoining fields or grooves to gather 
flowers: the other has a journey to go, sometimes through 5 
dirty roads, and at others through imtrodden and difficult 
ways. It is this effeminacy, this immersion in sensual ideas, 
or craving after continual excitement, that spoils the poet for 
his prose-tasks. He cannot wait till the effect comes of itself, 
or arises out of the occasion: he must force it upon all occa- 10 
sions, or his spirit droops and flags under a supposed imputa- 
tion of dullness. He can never drift with the current, but is 
always hoisting sail, and has his streamers flying. He has got 
a striking simile on hand; he lugs it in with the first opportu- 
nity, and with little connexion, and so defeats his object. 15 
He has a story to tell: he tells it in the first page, and where it 
would come in well, has nothing to say; Uke Goldsmith, who 
having to wait upon a Noble Lord, was so full of himself and 
of the figure he should make, that he addressed a set speech, 
which he had studied for the occasion, to his Lordship's 20 
butler, and had just ended as the nobleman made his appear- 
ance. The prose-ornaments of the poet are frequently beauti- 
ful in themselves, but do not assist the subject. They are 
pleasing excrescences — hindrances, not helps in an argument. 
The reason is, his embellishments in his own walk grow out 25 
of the subject by natural association; that is, beauty gives 
birth to kindred beauty, grandeur leads the mind on to greater 
grandeur. But in treating a common subject, the link is 
truth, force of illustration, weight of argument, not a graceful 
harmony in the immediate ideas; and hence the obvious and 30 
habitual clue which before guided him is gone, and he hangs 
on his patchwork, tinsel finery at random, in despair, without 
propriety, and without effect. The poetical prose-writer 
stops to describe an object, if he admires it, or thinks it wiU 
bear to be dwelt on: the genuine prose-writer only alludes to 35 
or characterises it in passing, and with reference to his sub- 
ject. The prose- writer is master of his materials: the poet 
is the slave of his style. Everything showy, everything ex- 



218 THE ART OF PROSE 

traneous tempts him, and he reposes idly on it: he is bent on 
pleasure, not on business. He aims at effect, at captivating 
the reader, and yet is contented with commonplace orna- 
ments, rather than none. Indeed, this last result must 

5 necessarily follow, where there is an ambition to shine, with- 
out the effort to dig for jewels m the mine of truth. The 
habits of a poet's mind are not those of industry or research: 
his images come to him, he does not go to them; and in prose- 
subjects, and dry matters-of-fact and close reasoning, the nat- 

10 ural stimulus that at other times warms and rouses, deserts 
him altogether. He sees no unhallowed visions, he is in- 
spired by no day-dreams. All is tame, literal, and barren, 
without the Nine. Nor does he collect his strength to strike 
fire from the flint by the sharpness of collision, by the eager- 

isness of his blows. He gathers roses, he steals colours from 
the rainbow. He lives on nectar and ambrosia. He ''treads 
the primrose path of dalliance," or ascends ''the highest 
heaven of invention," or falls flat to the ground. He is 
nothing, if not fanciful ! 

20 I shall proceed to explain these remarks, as well as I can, 
by a few instances in point. 

It has always appeared to me that the most perfect prose- 
style, the most powerful, the most dazzling, the most daring, 
that which went the nearest to the verge of poetry, and yet 

25 never fell over, was Burke's. It has the solidity and spark- 
ling effect of the diamond : all other fine writing is like French 
paste or Bristol-stones in the comparison. Burke's style is 
airy, flighty, adventurous, but it never loses sight of the sub- 
ject; nay, is always in contact with, and derives its increased 

30 or varjdng impulse from it. It may be said to pass yawning 
gulfs "on the unsteadfast footing of a spear;" still it has an 
actual resting-place and tangible support under it — it is not 
suspended on notfiing. It differs from poetry, as I conceive, 
like the chamois from the eagle; it climbs to an almost equal 

35 height, touches upon a cloud, overlooks a precipice, is pic- 
turesque, sublime — but all the while, instead of soaring 
through the air, it stands upon a rocky cliff, clambers up by 
abrupt and intricate ways, and browses on the roughest bark, 



ON THE PROSE-STYLE OF POETS 219 

or crops the tender flower. The principle which guides his 
pen is truth, not beauty — not pleasure, but power. He has 
no choice, no selection of subject to flatter the reader's idle 
taste, or assist his own fancy: he must take what comes, and 
make the most of it. He works the most striking effects out 5 
of the most unpromising materials, by the mere activity of his 
mind. He rises with the lofty, descends with the mean, 
luxuriates in beauty, gloats over deformity. It is all the 
same to him, so that he loses no particle of the exact, charac- 
teristic, extreme impression of the thing he writes about and 10 
that he communicates this to the reader, after exhausting 
every possible mode of illustration, plain or abstracted, figura- 
tive or literal. Whatever stamps the original image more 
distinctly on the mind is welcome. The nature of his task 
precludes continual beauty; but it does not preclude continual 15 
ingenuity, force, originality. He had to treat of political 
questions, mixed modes, abstract ideas, and his fancy (or 
poetry, if you wiU) was ingrafted on these artificially, and as 
it might sometimes be thought, violently, instead of growing 
naturally out of them, as it would spring of its own accord 20 
from individual objects and feelings. There is a resistance in 
the matter to the illustration applied to it — the concrete and 
abstract are hardly co-ordinate; and therefore it is that, when 
the first difficulty is overcome, they must agree more closely 
in the essential quahties, in order that the coincidence may 25 
be complete. Otherwise, it is good for nothing; and you 
justly charge the author's style with being loose, vague, flac- 
cid, and imbecile. The poet has been said 

"To make us heirs 
Of truth and pure dehght in endless lays." 30 

Not SO the prose-wTiter, who always mingles clay with his 
gold, and often separates truth from mere pleasure. He can 
only arrive at the last through the first. In poetry, one 
pleasing or striking image obviously suggests another: the 
increasing the sense of beauty or grandeur is the principle of 35 
composition: in prose, the professed object is to impart con- 
viction, and nothing can be admitted by way of ornament or 



220 THE ART OF PROSE 

relief that does not add new force or clearness to the original 
conception. The two classes of ideas brought together by 
the orator or impassioned prose-writer, to wit, the general 
subject and the particular image, are so far incompatible, 
Sand the identity must be more strict, more marked, more 
determinate, to make them coalesce to any practical purpose. 
Every word should be a blow: every thought should instantly 
grapple with its fellow. There must be a weight, a precision, 
a conformity from association in the tropes and figures of 
10 animated prose to fit them to their place in the argument, and 
make them tell, which may be dispensed with in poetry, where 
there is something much more congenial between the sub- 
ject-matter and the illustration — 

"Like beauty making beautiful old rime!" 

15 What can be more remote, for instance, and at the same time 
more apposite, more the same, than the following comparison of 
the English Constitution to ''the proud Keep of Windsor," 
in the celebrated Letter to a Noble Lord? 

"Such are their ideas; such their religion, and such their 

20 law. But as to our country and our race, as long as the well- 
compacted structure of our Church and State, the sanctuary, 
the holy of holies of that ancient law, defended by reverence, 
defended by power — a fortress at once and a temple ^ — shall 
stand inviolate on the brow of the British Zion; as long as the 

25 British Monarchy — not more limited than fenced by the 
orders of the State — shall, like the proud Keep of Windsor, 
rising in the majesty of proportion, and girt with the double 
belt of its kindred and coeval towers; as long as this awful 
structure shall oversee and guard the subjected land, so long 

30 the mounds and dykes of the low, fat, Bedford level will have 
nothing to fear from all the pickaxes of all the levellers of 
France. As long as our Sovereign Lord the King, and his 
faithful subjects, the Lords and Commons of this realm — the 
triple cord which no man can break; the solemn, sworn, con- 

35 stitutional frank-pledge of this nation; the firm guarantees of 

^ "Templum in modum arcis. " 

— Tacitus, Of the Temple of Jerusalem. 



ON THE PROSE-STYLE OF POETS 221 

each other's being, and each other's rights; the joint and 
several securities, each in its place and order, for every kind, 
and every quality of property and of dignity — as long as 
these endure, so long the Duke of Bedford is safe : and we are 
all safe together — the high from the blights of en\y and the 5 
spoliations of rapacity; the low from the iron hand of op- 
pression and the insolent spurn of contempt. Amen! and 
so be it: and so it will be, 

'Dum domus JEnesd Capitoli immobile saxum 

Accolet; imperiumque pater Romanus habebit.'" 10 

Nothing can well be more impracticable to a simile than the 
vague and complicated idea which is here embodied in one; 
yet how fuiely, how nobly it stands out, in natural grandeur, 
in royal state, with double barriers round it to answer for its 
identity, with "buttress, frieze, and coigne of 'vantage" for 15 
the imagination to "make its pendant bed and procreant 
cradle," till the idea is confounded with the object repre- 
senting it — the wonder of a kingdom; and then how striking, 
how determined the descent, "at one fell swoop," to the 
"low, fat, Bedford level!" Poetry would have been bound 20 
to maintain a certain decorum, a regular balance between 
these two ideas; sterling prose throws aside all such idle 
respect to appearances, and with its pen, like a sword, "sharp 
and sweet," lays open the naked truth! The poet's Muse is 
like a mistress, w^hom we keep only while she is young and 25 
beautiful, durante bene placito; the Muse of prose is like a 
wife, whom we take during life, for better for worse. Burke's 
execution, like that of all good prose, savours of the texture 
of what he describes, and his pen slides or drags over the 
ground of his subject, like the painter's pencil. The most 30 
rigid fidelity and the most fanciful extravagance meet, and 
are reconciled in his pages. I never pass Windsor but I 
think of this passage in Burke, and hardly know to which 
I am indebted most for enriching my moral sense, that, or the 
fine picturesque stanza in Gray, 35 

"From Windsor's heights the expanse below 
Of mead, of lawn, of wood survey," etc. 



222 THE ART OF PROSE 

I might mention that the so-much-admired description, 
in one of the India speeches, of Hyder Ally's army (I think it 
is) which "now hung like a cloud upon the mountain, and now 
burst upon the plain like a thunderbolt,'' would do equally 
5 well for poetry or prose. It is a bold and striking illustration 
of a naturally impressive object. This is not the case with 
the Abbe Sieyes's far-famed "pigeon-holes," nor with the 
comparison of the Duke of Bedford to "the Leviathan, tumb- 
ling about his unwieldy bulk in the ocean of royal bounty." 

10 Nothing here saves the description but the force of the in- 
vective; the startling truth, the vehemence, the remoteness, 
the aptitude, the perfect peculiarity and coincidence of the 
allusion. No writer would ever have thought of it but him- 
self; no reader can ever forget it. What is there in common, 

15 one might say, between a Peer of the Realm, and "that sea- 
beast, " of those 

"Created hugest that swim the ocean-stream?" 

Yet Burke has knit the two ideas together, and no man can 
put them asunder. No matter how slight and precarious the 

20 connection, the length of line it is necessary for the fancy to 
give out in keeping hold of the object on which it has fastened, 
he seems to have "put his hook in the nostrils" of this enor- 
mous creature of the crown, that empurples all its track 
through the glittering expanse of a profound and restless 

25 imagination! 

In looking into the Iris of last week, I find the following 

passages, in an article on the death of Lord Castlereagh. 

"The splendour of Majesty leaving the British metropolis, 

careering along the ocean, and landing in the capital of the 

30 North, is distinguished only by glimpses through the dense 
array of clouds in which Death hid himself, while he struck 
down to the dust the stateliest courtier near the throne, and 
the broken train of which pursues and crosses the Royal prog- 
ress wherever its glories are presented to the eye of imagi- 

35 nation. . . . 

"The same indefatigable mind — a mind of all work — 
which thus ruled the Continent with a rod of iron, the sword 



ON THE PROSE-STYLE OF POETS 223 

— within the walls of the House of Commons ruled a more 
distracted region with a more subtle and finely-tempered 
weapon, the tongue; and truly, if this was the only weapon 
his Lordship wielded there, where he had daily to encounter, 
and frequently almost alone, enemies more formidable than 5 
Buonaparte, it must be acknowledged that he achieved 
greater victories than Demosthenes or Cicero ever gained in 
far more easy fields of strife; nay, he wrought miracles of 
speech, outvying those miracles of song, which Orpheus is 
said to have performed, when not only men and brutes, but 10 
rocks, woods, and mountains, followed the sound of his 
voice and lyre. . . . 

"But there was a worm at the root of the gourd that 
flourished over his head in the brightest sunshine of a court; 
both perished in a night, and in the morning, that which had 15 
been his glory and his shadow, covered him like a shroud; 
while the corpse, notwithstanding all his honours, and titles, 
and offices, lay uncovered in the place where it fell, till a 
judgment had been passed upon him — which the poorest 
peasant escapes when he dies in the ordinary course of 20 
nsiture.'' -- Sheffield Advertiser, Aug. 20, 1822. 

This, it must be confessed, is very unlike Burke: yet Mr. 
Montgomery is a very pleasing poet, and a strenuous poli- 
tician. The whole is travelling out of the record, and to no 
sort of purpose. The author is constantly getting away from 25 
the impression of his subject, to envelop himself in a cloud of 
images, which weaken and perplex, instead of adding force 
and clearness to it. Provided he is figurative, he does not 
care how commonplace or irrelevant the figures are, and 
wanders on, delighted in a labyrinth of words, like a truant 30 
schoolboy, who is only glad to escape from his task. He has 
a very slight hold of his subject, and is tempted to let it go 
for any fallacious ornament of style. How obscure and 
circuitous is the allusion to "the clouds in which Death hid 
himself, to strike down the stateliest courtier near the throne!" 35 
How hackneyed is the reference to Demosthenes and Cicero, 
and how utterly quaint and unmeaning is the ringing the 
changes upon Orpheus and his train of men, beasts, woods, 



224 THE ART OF PROSE 

rocks, and mountains in connection with Lord Castlereagh! 
But he is better pleased with his classical fable than with 
the death of the Noble Peer, and delights to dwell upon it, to 
however little use. So he is glad to take advantage of the 
6 scriptural idea of a gourd; not to enforce, but as a relief to his 
reflections; and points his conclusion with a puling sort 
of commonplace, that a person who dies a natural death, has 
no coroner's inquest to sit upon him. All these are the 
faults of the ordinary poetical style. Poets think they are 

10 bound, by the tenour of their indenture to the Muses, to 
"elevate and surprise" in every line; and not having the 
usual resources at hand in common or abstracted subjects, 
aspire to the end without the means. They make, or pretend, 
an extraordinary interest where there is none. They are 

15 ambitious, vain, and indolent — more busy in preparing idle 
ornaments which they take their chance of bringing in some- 
how or other, than intent on eliciting truths by fair and honest 
inquiry. It should seem as if they considered prose as a sort 
of waiting-maid to poetry, that could only be expected to 

20 wear her mistress's cast-off finery. Poets have been said to 
succeed best in fiction; and the account here given may in 
part explam the reason. That is to say, they must choose 
their own subject, in such a manner as to afford them continual 
opportunities of appealing to the senses and exciting the 

25 fancy. Dry details, abstruse speculations, do not give scope 
to vividness of description; and, as they cannot bear to be 
considered dull, they become too often affected, extravagant, 
and insipid. 

I am indebted to Mr. Coleridge for the comparison of 

30 poetic prose to the second-hand finery of a lady's maid (just 
made use of). He himself is an instance of his own obser- 
vation, and (what is even worse) of the opposite fault — an 
affectation of quaintness and originality. With bits of 
tarnished lace and worthless frippery, he assumes a sweeping 

35 oriental costume, or borrows the stiff dresses of our ancestors, 
or starts an eccentric fashion of his own. He is swelling 
and turgid — everlastingly aiming to be greater than his sub- 
ject; filhng his fancy with fumes and vapours in the pangs and 



ON THE PROSE-STYLE OF POETS 225 

throes of miraculous parturition and bringing forth only 
still births. He has an incessant craving, as it were, to exalt 
every idea into a metaphor, to expand every sentiment into 
a lengthened mystery, voluminous and vast, confused and 
cloudy. His style is not succinct, but incumbered with a 5 
train of words and images that have no practical, and only a 
possible relation to one another — that add to its stateliness, 
but impede its march. One of his sentences winds its "for- 
lorn way obscure" over the page like a patriarchal procession 
with camels laden, wreathed turbans, household wealth, the lO 
whole riches of the author's mind poured out upon the barren 
wastes of his subject. The palm-tree spreads its sterile 
branches overhead, and the land of promise is seen in the 
distance. All tliis is owing to his wishing to overdo every- 
thing — to make something more out of everything than it is, 15 
or than it is worth. The simple truth does not satisfy him — 
no direct proposition fills up the moulds of his understanding. 
All is foreign, far-fetched, irrelevant, laboured, and unpro- 
ductive. To read one of his disquisitions is like hearing the 
variation to a piece of music without the score. Or, to vary 20 
the simile, he is not like a man going a journey by the stage- 
coach along the high-road, but is always getting into a 
balloon, and mounting into the air, above the plain of prose. 
Whether he soars to the empyrean, or dives to the centre (as 
he sometimes does), it is equally to get away from the question 25 
before him, and to prove that he owes everything to his own 
mind. His object is to invent; he scorns to imitate. The 
business of prose is the contrary. But Mr. Coleridge is a 
poet, and his thoughts are free. 

I think the poet-laureate is a much better prose writer. 30 
His' style has an antique quaintness, with a modern familiar- 
ity. He has just a sufficient sprinkling of archaisms, of al- 
lusions to old Fuller, and Burton, and Latimer, to set off or 
qualify the smart flippant tone of his apologies , for existing 
abuses, or the ready, galling virulence of his personal in- 35 
vectives. Mr. Southey is a faithful historian, and no ineffi- 
cient partisan. In the former character, his mind is tenacious 
of facts; and in the latter, his spleen and jealousy prevent the 



226 THE ART OF PROSE 

''extravagant and erring spirit" of the poet from losing itself 
in Fancy's endless maze. He "stoops to earth," at least, and 
prostitutes his pen to some purpose (not at the same time 
losing his own soul, and gaining nothing by it) — and he 
5 vilifies Reform, and praises the reign of George III in good 
set terms, in a straightforward, intelligible, practical, pointed 
way. He is not buoyed up by conscious power out of the 
reach of common apprehensions, but makes the most of the 
obvious advantages he possesses. You may complain of a 

10 pettiness and petulance of manner, but certainly there is no 
want of spirit or facility of execution. He does not waste 
powder and shoot in the air, but loads his piece, takes a level 
aim, and hits his mark. One would say (though his Muse 
is ambidexter) that he wrote prose with his right hand; 

15 there is nothing awkward, circuitous, or feeble in it. "The 
words of Mercury are harsh after the songs of Apollo:" but 
this would not apply to him. His prose-lucubrations are 
pleasanter reading than his poetry. Indeed, he is equally 
practised and voluminous in both; and it is no improbable 

20 conjecture, that Mr. Southey may have had some idea of 

rivalling the reputation of Voltaire in the extent, the spirit, 

and the versatihty of his productions in prose and verse, 

except that he has written no tragedies but Wat Tyler! 

To my taste, the Author of Rimini, and Editor of the 

25 Examiner, is among the best and least corrupted of our 
poetical prose-writers. In his light but well-supported col- 
umns we find the raciness, the sharpness, and sparkling effect 
of poetry, with little that is extravagant or far-fetched, and no 
turgidity or pompous pretension. Perhaps there is too much 

30 the appearance of relaxation and trifling (as if he had escaped 
the shackles of rhyme), a caprice, a levity, and a disposition 
to innovate in words and ideas. Still the genuine master- 
spirit of the prose-writer is there; the tone of lively, sensible 
conversation; and this may in part arise from the author's 

35 being himself an animated talker. Mr. Hunt wants some- 
thing of the heat and earnestness of the political partisan; 
but his familiar and miscellaneous papers have all the ease, 
grace, and point of the best style of essay-writing. Many 



ON THE PROSE-STYLE OF POETS 227 

of his effusions in the Indicator show, that if he had devoted 
himself exclusively to that mode of writing, he inherits more 
of the spirit of Steele than any man since his time. 

Lord Byron's prose is bad; that is to say, heavy, laboured, 
and coarse: he tries to knock someone down with the butt- 5 
end of every hne, which defeats his object — and the style of 
the Author of Waverley (if he comes fairly into this discussion) 
as mere style is villainous. It is pretty plain he is a poet; 
for the sound of names runs mechanically in his ears, and he 
rings the changes unconsciously on the same words in a 10 
sentence, like the same rh3Tiies in a couplet. 

Not to spin out this discussion too much, I would conclude 
by observing, that some of the old English prose-writers (who 
were not poets) are the best, and, at the same time, the most 
poetical in the favourable sense. Among these we may 15 
reckon some of the old divines, and 'Jeremy Taylor at the 
head of them. There is a flush like the dawn over his writings; 
the sweetness of the rose, the freshness of the morning dew. 
There is a softness in his style, proceeding from the tender- 
ness of his heart: but his head is firm, and his hand is free. 20 
Ilis materials are as finely wrought up as they are original 
and attractive in themselves. Milton's prose-style savours 
too nmch of poetry, and, as I have already hinted, of an imi- 
tation of the Latin. Dryden's is perfectly unexceptionable, 
and a model, in simplicity, strength, and perspicuity, for the 25 
subjects he treated of. 



ON A LANDSCAPE OF NICOLAS POUSSIN 

" And blind Orion hungry for the morn." 

Orion, the subject of this landscape, was the classical Nim- 
rod; and is called by Homer, "a hunter of shadows, himself 
a shade." He was the son of Neptune; and having lost an 

5 eye in some affray between the gods and men, was told that if 
he would go to meet the rising sun, he would recover his sight. 
He is represented setting out on his journey, with men on his 
shoulders to guide him, a bow in his hand, and Diana in the 
clouds greeting him. He stalks along, a giant upon earth, 

10 and reels and falters' in his gait, as if just awaked out of sleep, 
or uncertain of his way ; — you see his blindness, though his 
back is turned. Mists rise around him, and veil the sides of 
the green forests; earth is dank and fresh with dews, the ''grey 
dawn and the Pleiades before him dance," and in the distance 

15 are seen the blue hills and sullen ocean. Nothing was ever 
more finely conceived or done. It breathes the spirit of the 
morning; its moisture, its repose, its obscurity, waiting the 
miracle of light to kindle it into smiles: the whole is, like the 
principal figure in it, "a forerumier of the dawn." The 

20 same atmosphere tinges and imbues every object, the same 
dull light ''shadowy sets off" the face of nature: one feeling 
of vastness, of strangeness, and of primeval forms pervades 
the painter's canvas, and we are thrown back upon the first 
integrity of things. This great and learned man might be 

25 said to see nature through the glass of time: he alone has a 
right to be considered as the painter of classical antiquity. 
Sir Joshua has done him justice in this respect. He could 
give to the scenery of his heroic fables that unimpaired look 
of original nature, full, solid, large, luxuriant, teeming with 

30Hfe and power; or deck it with all the pomp of art, with 
temples and towers, and mythologic groves. His pictures 

228 



ON A LANDSCAPE OF NICOLAS POUSSIN 229 

''denote a foregone conclusion." He applies nature to his 
purposes, works out her images according to the standard 
of his thoughts, embodies high fictions; and the first concep- 
tion being given, all the rest seems to grow out of, and be 
assimilated to it, by the unfailing process of a studious imagi- 5 
nation. Like his own Orion, he overlooks the surrounding 
scene, appears to "take up the isles as a very little thing, and 
to lay the earth in a balance." With a laborious and mighty 
grasp, he put nature into the mould of the ideal and antique; 
and was among painters (more than any one else) what Milton 10 
was among poets. There is both something of the same 
pedantry, the same stiffness, the same elevation, the same 
grandeur, the same mixture of art and nature, the same 
richness of borrowed materials, the same unity of character. 
Neither the poet nor the painter lowered the subjects they 15 
treated, but filled up the outline in the fancy, and added 
strength and reality to it; and thus not only satisfied, but 
surpassed the expectations of the spectator and the reader. 
This is held for the triumph and the perfection of works of 
art. To give us nature, such as we see it, is well and deserving 20 
of praise; to give us nature, such as we have never seen, but 
have often wished to see it, is better, and deserving of higher 
praise. He who can show the world in its first naked glory, 
with the hues of fancy spread over it, or in its high and palmy 
state, with the gravity of history stamped on the proud monu- 25 
ments of vanished empire, — who, by his "so potent art," 
can recall time past, transport us to distant places, and join 
the regions of imagination (a new conquest) to those of 
reality, — who shows us not only what nature is, but what 
she has been, and is capable of, — he who does this, and does 30 
it with simpHcity, with truth, and grandeur, is lord of nature 
and her powers; and his mind is universal, and his art the 
master-art! 

There is nothing in this "more than natural," if criticism 
could be persuaded to think so. The historic painter does not 35 
neglect or contravene nature, but follows her more closely 
up into her fantastic heights, or hidden recesses. He demon- 
strates what she would be in conceivable circumstances, and 



230 CRITICISM 

under implied conditions. He "gives to airy nothing a local 
habitation," not "a name." At his touch, words start up 
into images, thoughts become things. He clothes a dream, a 
phantom with form and colour and the wholesome attributes 
5 of reality. His art is a second nature; not a different one. 
There are those, indeed, who think that not to copy nature 
is the rule for attaining perfection. Because they cannot 
paint the objects which they have seen, they fancy themselves 
qualified to paint the ideas which they have not seen. But 

10 it is possible to fail in this latter and more difficult style of 
imitation, as well as in the former humbler one. The de- 
tection, it is true, is not so easy, because the objects are not 
so nigh at hand to compare, and therefore there is more room 
both for false pretension and for self-deceit. They take an 

15 epic motto or subject, and conclude that the spirit is implied as 
a thing of course. They paint inferior portraits, maudlin, 
lifeless faces, without ordinary expression, or one look, feature, 
or particle of nature in them, and think that this is to rise to 
the truth of history. They vulgarise and degrade whatever 

20 is interesting or sacred to the mind, and suppose that they 
thus add to the dignity of their profession. They represent 
a face that seems as if no thought or feeling of any kind had 
ever passed through it, and would have you believe that this 
is the very sublime of expression, such as it would appear in 

25 heroes, or demi-gods of old, when rapture or agony was raised 
to its height. They show you a landscape that looks as if the 
sun never shone upon it, and tell you that it is not modern 
— that so earth looked when Titan first kissed it with his 
rays. This is not the true ideal. It is not to fill the moulds 

30 of the imagination, but to deface and injure them: it is not 
to come up to, but to fall short of the poorest conception in 
the public mind. Such pictures should not be hung in the 
same room with that of Orion.^ 

1 Everything tends to show the manner in which a great artist ig 
35 formed. If any person could claim an exemption from the careful 
imitation of individual objects, it was Nicolas Poussin. He studied 
the antique, but he also studied nature. "I have often admired," 
says Vignuel de Marville, who knew him at a late period of his life, 
"the love he had for his art. Old as he was, I frequently saw him 



OJNT A LANDSCAPE OF NICOLAS POUSSIN 231 

Poussin was, of all painters, the most poetical. He was the 
painter of ideas. No one ever told a story half so well, nor so 
well knew what was capable of being told by the pencil. He 
seized on, and struck off with grace and precision, just that 
point of view which would be likely to catch the reader's 5 
fancy. There is a significance, a consciousness in whatever 
he does (sometimes a vice, but oftener a virtue) beyond any 
other painter. His Giants sitting on the tops of craggy 
mountains, as huge themselves, and playing idly on their 
Pan's-pipes, seem to have been seated there these three thou- 10 
sand years, and to know the beguming and the end of their 
own story. An infant Bacchus or Jupiter is big with his 
future destiny. Even inanimate and dumb things speak a 
language of their own. His snakes, the messengers of fate, 
are inspired with human intellect. His trees grow and ex- 15 
pand their leaves in the air, glad of the rain, proud of the sun, 
awake to the winds of heaven. In his Plague of Athens, the 
very buildings seem stiff with horror. His picture of the 
Deluge is, perhaps, the finest historical landscape in the world. 
You see a waste of waters, wide, interminable: the sun is 20 
labouring, wan and weary, up the sky; the clouds, dull and 
leaden, lie like a load upon the eye, and heaven and earth 

among the ruins of ancient Rome, oilt in the Campagna, or along the 
banks of the Tiber, sketching a scene that had pleased him; and I 
often met him with his handkerchief full of stones, moss, or flowers, 25 
which he carried home, that he might copy them exactly from nature. 
One day I asked him how he had attained to such a degree of per- 
fection, as to have gained so high a rank among the great painters of 
Italy? He answered, I have neglected nothing." — See his Life lately 
'published. It appears from this account that he had not fallen into 30 
a recent error, that Nature puts the man of genius out. As a con- 
trast to the foregoing description, I might mention, that I remember 
an old gentleman once asking Mr. West in the British Gallery, if he 
had ever been at Athens? To which the President made answer, No ; 
nor did he feel any great desire to go; for that he thought he had as 35 
good an idea of the place from the catalogue, as he could get by 
living there for any number of years. What would he have said, if 
any one had told him, he could get as good an idea of the subject of 
one of his great works from reading the catalogue of it, as from seeing 
the picture itself! Yet the answer was characteristic of the genius 40 
of the painter. 



232 CRITICISM 

seem commingling into one confused mass! His human figures 
are sometimes "o'er-informed" with this kind of feeling. 
Their actions have too much gesticulation, and the set ex- 
pression of ihe features borders too much on the mechanical 
5 and caricatured style. In this respect, they form a contrast 
to Raphael's, whose figures never appear to be sitting for 
their pictures, or to be conscious of a spectator, or to have 
come from the painter's hand. In Nicolas Poussin, on the 
contrary, everything seems to have a distinct understanding 

10 with the artist; ''the very stones prate of their whereabout:" 
each object has its part and place assigned, and is in a sort of 
compact with the rest of the picture. It is this conscious 
keeping, and, as it were, internal design, that gives their 
peculiar character to the works of this artist. There was a 

15 picture of Aurora in the British Gallery a year or two ago. It 
was a suffusion of golden hght. The Goddess wore her saf- 
fron-coloured robes, and appeared just risen from the gloomy 
bed of old Tithonus. Her very steeds, milk-white, were 
tinged with the yellow dawn. It was a personification of the 

20 morning. — Poussin succeeded better in classic than in sacred 
subjects. The latter are comparatively heavy, forced, full of 
violent contrasts of colour, of red, blue, and black, and without 
the true prophetic inspiration of the characters. But in his 
Pagan allegories and fables he was quite at home. The 

25 native gravity and native levity of the Frenchman were com- 
bined with Italian scenery and an antique gusto, and gave 
even to his colouring an air of learned indifference. He wants, 
in one respect, grace, form, expression; but he has everywhere 
sense and meaning, perfect costume and propriety. His 

30 personages always belong to the class and time represented, 
and are strictly versed in the business in hand. His grotesque 
compositions in particular, his Nymphs and Fauns, are su- 
perior (at least, as far as style is concerned) even to those of 
Rubens. They are taken more immediately out of fabulous 

35 history. Rubens's Satyrs and Bacchantes have a more 
jovial and voluptuous aspect, are more drunk with pleasure, 
more full of animal spirits and riotous impulses; they laugh 
and bound along — 



ON A LANDSCAPE OF NICOLAS POUSSIN 233 

" Leaping like wanton kids in pleasant spring: " 

but those of Poussin have more of the intellectual part of the 
character, and seem vicious on reflection, and of set purpose. 
Rubens's are noble specimens of a class; Poussin's are allegor- 
ical abstractions of the same class, with bodies less pampered, 5 
but with minds more secretly depraved. The Bacchanalian 
groups of the Flemish painter were, however, his master- 
pieces in . composition. Witness those prodigies of colour, 
character, and expression at Blenheim. In the more chaste 
and refined delineation of classic fable, Poussin was without a 10 
rival. Rubens, who was a match for him in the wild and 
picturesque, could not pretend to vie with the elegance and 
purity of thought in his picture of Apollo giving a poet a cup 
of water to drink, nor with the gracefulness of design in the 
figure of a nymph squeezing the juice of a bunch of grapes 15 
from her fingers (a rosy wine-press) which falls into the mouth 
of a chubby infant below. But, above all, who shall celebrate, 
in terms of fit praise, his picture of the shepherds in the Vale 
of Tempe going out in a fine morning of the spring, and coming 
to a tomb with this inscription: — Et ego in Arcadia vixi!20 
The eager curiosity of some, the expression of others who start 
back with fear and surprise, the clear breeze playing with 
the branches of the shadowing trees, "the valleys low, where 
the mild zephjrs use," the distant, uninterrupted, sunny 
prospects speak (and forever will speak on) of ages past to 25 
ages yet to come! ^ 

Pictures are a set of chosen images, a stream of pleasant 
thoughts passing through the mind. It is a luxury to have the 
walls of our rooms hung round with them, and no less so to 
have such a gallery in the mind, to con over the relics of an- 30 
cient art bound up "within the book and volume of the brain, 
unmixed (if it were possible) with baser matter!" A life 
passed among pictures, in the study and the love of art, is a 

^ Poussin has repeated this subject more than once, and appears 
to have revelled in its witcheries. I have before alluded to it, and may 35 
again. It is hard that we should not be allowed to dwell as often as 
we please on what delights us, when things that are disagreeable 
recur so often against our will. 



234 CRITICISM 

happy, noiseless dream: or rather, it is to dream and to be 
awake at the same time; for it has all "the sober certainty of 
waking bliss," with the romantic voluptuousness of a vision- 
ary and abstracted being. They are the bright consummate 
5 essences of things, and "he who knows of these delights to 
taste and interpose them oft, is not unwise! " — The Orion, 
which I have here taken occasion to descant upon, is one of a 
collection of excellent pictures, as this collection is itself one 
of a series from the old masters, which have for some years 

10 back embrowned the walls of the British Gallery, and enriched 
the public eye. What hues (those of nature mellowed by 
time) breathe around, as we enter! What forms are there, 
woven into the memory! What looks, which only the an- 
swering looks of the spectator can express! What intel- 

15 lectual stores have been yearly poured forth from the shrine 
of ancient art! The works are various, but the names the 
same — heaps of Rembrandts frowning from the darkened 
walls, Rubens's glad, gorgeous groups, Titians more rich and 
rare, Claudes always exquisite, sometimes beyond compare, 

2oGuido's endless cloying sweetness, the learning of Poussin 
and the Caracci, and Raphael's princely magnificence, 
crowning all. We read certain letters and syllables in the 
catalogue, and at the well-known magic sound, a miracle of 
skill and beauty starts to view. One might think that one 

25 year's prodigal display of such perfection would exhaust the 
labours of one man's life; but the next year, and the next to 
that, we find another harvest reaped and gathered in to the 
great garner of art, by the same immortal hands — 

" Old Genius the porter of them was; 
30 He letteth in, he letteth out to wend." — 

Their works seem endless as their reputation — to be many 
as they are complete — to multiply with the desire of the 
mind to see more and more of them; as if there were a living 
power in the breath of Fame, and in the very names of the 
35 great heirs of glory "there were propagation too!" It is 
something to have a collection of this sort to count upon once 
a year; to have one last, lingering look yet to come. Pic- 



ON A LANDSCAPE OF NICOLAS POUSSIN 235 

tures are scattered like stray gifts through the world; and 
while they remain, earth has yet a little gilding left, not quite 
rubbed off, dishonoured, and defaced. There are plenty of 
standard works still to be found in this country, in the col- 
lections at Blenheim, at Burleigh, and in those belonging to 5 
Mr. Angerstein, Lord Grosvenor, the Marquis of Stafford, 
and others, to keep up this treat to the lovers of art for many 
years: and it is the more desirable to reserve a privileged 
sanctuary of this sort, where the eye may dote, and the 
heart take its fill of such pictures as Poussin's Orion, since the 10 
Louvre is stripped of its triumphant spoils, and since he who 
collected it, and wore it as a rich jewel in his Iron Crown, the 
hunter of greatness and of glory, is himself a shade! 



MR. COLERIDGE 

The present is an age of talkers, and not of doers; and the 
reason is, that the world is growing old. We are so far ad- 
vanced in the Arts and Sciences, that we live in retrospect, 
and doat on past achievements. The accumulation of 
5 knowledge has been so great, that we are lost in wonder at the 
height it has reached, instead of attempting to climb or add 
to it; while the variety of objects distracts and dazzles the 
looker-on. What niche remains unoccupied? What path un- 
tried? What is the use of doing anything, unless we could do 

10 better than all those who have gone before us? What hope 
is. there of this? We are like those who have been to see some 
noble monument of art, who are content to admire without 
thinking of rivalling it; or like the guests after a feast, who 
praise the hospitality of the donor ''and thank the bounteous 

15 Pan" — perhaps carrying away some trifling fragments; or 
like the spectators of a mighty battle, who still hear its sound 
afar off, and the clashing of armour and the neighing of the 
war-horse and the shout of victory is in their ears, like the 
rushing of innumerable waters! 

20 Mr. Coleridge has ''a mind reflecting ages past;" his 
voice is like the echo of the congregated roar of the ''dark 
rearward and abyss " of thought. He who has seen a moulder- 
ing tower by the side of a crystal lake, hid by the mist, but 
glittering in the wave below, may conceive the dim, gleaming, 

25 uncertain intelligence of his eye; he who has marked the 
evening clouds uprolled (a world of vapours) has seen the 
picture of his mind, unearthly, unsubstantial, with gorgeous 
tints and ever- varying forms — 

"That which was now a horse, even with a thought 
30 The rack dislimns, and makes it indistinct 

As water is in water " 
236 



MR. COLERIDGE 237 

Our author's mind is (as he himself might express it) 
tangential. There is no subject on which he has not touched, 
none on which he has rested. With an understanding fertile, 
subtle, expansive, ''quick, forgetive, apprehensive," beyond 
aO Uving precedent, few traces of it perhaps remain. He 5 
lends himself to all impressions ahke; he gives up his mind 
and liberty of thought to none. He is a general lover of art 
and science, and wedded to no one in particular. He pursues 
knowledge as a mistress, with outstretched hands and winged 
speed; but as he is about to embrace her, his Daphne turns 10 
— alas! not to a laurel! Hardly a speculation has been left 
on record from the earliest time, but it is loosely folded up 
in Mr. Coleridge's memory, like a rich, but somewhat tattered 
piece of tapestry: we might add (with more seeming than 
real extravagance) that scarce a thought can pass through the 15 
mind of man, but its sound has at some time or other passed 
over his head with rustling pinions. 

On whatever question or author you speak, he is prepared 
to take up the theme with advantage — from Peter Abelard 
down to Thomas Moore, from the subtlest metaphysics to the 20 
politics of the Courier. There is no man of genius in whose 
praise he descants, but the critic seems to stand above the 
author, and "what in him is weak, to strengthen, what is low, 
to raise and support:" nor is there any work of genius that 
does not come out of his hands like an illuminated Missal, 25 
sparkling even in its defects. If Mr. Coleridge had not been 
the most impressive talker of his age, he would probably have 
been the finest writer; but he lays down his pen to make sure 
of an auditor, and mortgages the admiration of posterity for 
the stare of an idler. If he had not been a poet, he would 30 
have been a powerful logician; if he had not dipped his wing 
in the Unitarian controversy, he might have soared to the 
very summit of fancy. But, in writing verse, he is trying to 
subject the Muse to transcendental theories: in his abstract 
reasoning, he misses his way by strewing it with flowers. 35 

All that he has done of moment, he had done twenty years 
ago: since then, he may be said to have lived on the sound of 
his own voice. Mr. Coleridge is too rich in intellectual 



238 CRITICISM 

wealth, to need to task himself to any drudgery: he has only 
to draw the sliders of his imagination, and a thousand sub- 
jects expand before him, startling him with their brilliancy, 
or losing themselves in endless obscurity — 

5 "And by the force of blear illusion. 

They draw him on to his confusion, " 

What is the little he could add to the stock, compared with 
the countless stores that lie about him, that he should stoop 
to pick up a name, or to polish an idle fancy? He walks 

10 abroad in the majesty of an universal understanding, eyeing 
the "rich strond" or golden sky above him, and "goes sound- 
ing on his way," in eloquent accents, uncompelled and free! 
Persons of the greatest capacity are often those who for 
this reason do the least; for surveying themselves from the 

15 highest point of view, amidst the infinite variety of the uni- 
verse, their own share in it seems trifling, and scarce worth a 
thought; and they prefer the contemplation of all that is, or 
has been, or can be, to the making a coil about doing what, 
when done, is no better than vanity. It is hard to concen- 

20 trate all our attention and efforts on one pursuit, except from 
ignorance of others; and without this concentration of our 
faculties no great progress can be made in any one thing. It 
is not merely that the mind is not capable of the effort; it 
does not think the effort worth making. Action is one; but 

25 thought is manifold. He whose restless eye glances through 
the wide compass of nature and art, will not consent to have 
"his own nothings monstered," but he must do this before 
he can give his whole soul to them. The mind, after "let- 
ting contemplation have its fill," or 

30 " Sailing with supreme dominion 

Through the azure deep of air," 

sinks down on the ground, breathless, exhausted, powerless, 
inactive; or if it must have some vent to its feelings, seeks the 
most easy and obvious ; is soothed by friendly flattery, lulled 
35 by the murmur of immediate applause; thinks, as it were, 
aloud, and babbles in its dreams! 



MR. COLERIDGE 239 

A scholar (so to speak) is a more disinterested and ab- 
stracted character than a mere author. The first looks at the 
numberless volumes of a library, and says, "'All these are 
mine:" the other points to a single volume (perhaps it may 
be an immortal one) and says, "My name is written on the 5 
back of it. " This is a puny and grovelling ambition, beneath 
the lofty amplitude of Mr. Coleridge's mind. No, he re- 
volves in his wayward soul, or utters to the passing wind, or 
discourses to his own shadow, things mightier and more 
various! — Let us draw the curtain, and unlock the shrine. 10 

Learning rocked him in his cradle, and while yet a child, 

"He lisped in numbers, for the numbers came." 

At sixteen he wTote his Ode on Chatterton, and he still reverts 
to that period with delight, not so much as it relates to him- 
self (for that string of his own early promise of fame rather 15 
jars than otherwise) but as exemplifying the youth of a poet. 
Mr. Coleridge talks of himself without being an egotist; for 
in him the individual is always merged in the abstract and 
general. He distinguished himself at school and at the 
University by his knowledge of the classics, and gained several 20 
prizes for Greek epigrams. How many men are there (great 
scholars, celebrated names in literature) who, having done the 
same thing in their youth, have no other idea all the rest of 
their Uves but of this achievement, of a fellowship and din- 
ner, and who, instaUed in academic honours, would look 25 
down on our author as a mere strolling bard! At Christ's 
Hospital, where he was brought up, he was the idol of 
those among his schoolfellows who mingled with their bookish 
studies the music of thought and of humanity; and he was 
usually attended round the cloisters by a group of these 30 
(inspiring and inspired) whose hearts even then burnt within 
them as he talked, and where, the sounds yet linger to mock 
Elia on his way, still turning pensive to the past! 

One of the finest and rarest parts of Mr. Coleridge's con- 
versation is, when he expatiates on the Greek tragedians 35 
(not that he is not well acquainted, when he pleases, with 
the epic poets, or the philosophers, or orators, or historians 



240 CRITICISM 

of antiquity) — on the subtle reasonings and melting pathos 
of Euripides, on the harmonious gracefulness of Sophocles, 
tuning his love-laboured song, like sweetest warblings from a 
sacred grove; on the high- wrought, trumpet-tongued elo- 
Squence of iEschylus, whose Prometheus, above all, is lilve an 
Ode to Fate and a pleading with Providence, his thoughts 
being let loose as his body is chained on his solitary rock, and 
his afflicted will (the emblem of mortality) 

"Struggling in vain with ruthless destiny." 

10 As the impassioned critic speaks and rises in his theme, you 
would think you heard the voice of the Man hated by the 
Gods, contending with the wild winds as they roar; and his 
eye glitters with the spirit of Antiquity! 

Next, he was engaged with Hartley's tribes of mind, 

15"etherial braid, thought-woven," — and he busied himself 
for a year or two with vibrations and vibratiuncles, and the 
great law of association that binds all things in its mystic 
chain, and the doctrine of Necessity (the mild teacher of 
Charity) and the Millennium, anticipative of a life to come; 

20 and he plunged deep into the controversy on Matter and 
Spirit, and, as an escape from Dr. Priestley's Materialism, 
where he felt himself imprisoned by the logician's spell, like 
Ariel in the cloven pine-tree, he became suddenly enamoured 
of Bishop Berkeley's fairy-world,^ and used in all com- 

25 panics to build the universe, like a brave poetical fiction, of 
fine words. And he was deep-read in Malebranche, and in 
Cudworth's Intellectual System (a huge pile of learning, un- 
wieldy, enormous) and in Lord Brooke's hieroglyphic theories, 
and in Bishop Butler's Sermons, and in the Duchess of 

30 Newcastle's fantastic folios, and in Clarke and South, and 

1 Mr. Coleridge named his eldest son (the writer of some beautiful 
sonnets) after Hartley, and the second after Berkeley. The third 
was called Derwent, after the river of that name. Nothing can be 
more characteristic of his mind than this circumstance. All his 
35 ideas indeed are like a river, flowing on for ever, and still murmuring 
as it flows, discharging its waters and still replenished — 
" And so by many winding nooks it strays, 
With willing sport to the wild ocean!" 



MR. COLERIDGE 241 

Tillotson, and all the fine thinkers and masculine reasoners 
of that age; and Leibnitz's Pre-established Harmony reared 
its arch above his head, like the rainbow in the cloud, cove- 
nanting with the hopes of man. 

And then he fell plump, ten thousand fathoms down (but 5 
his wings saved him harmless) into the hortus siccus of Dissent, 
where he pared religion down to the standard of reason, and 
stripped faith of mystery, and preached Christ crucified and 
the Unity of the Godhead, and so dwelt for a while in the 
spirit with John Huss and Jerome of Prague and Socinus and 10 
old John Zisca, and ran through Neal's History of the Puritans 
and Calamy's Non-Conformists' Memorial, having like 
thoughts and passions with them. But then Spinoza became 
his God, and he took up the vast chain of being in his hand, 
and the round world became the centre and the soul of all 15 
things in some shadowy sense, forlorn of meaning, and around 
him he beheld the living traces and the sky-pointing pro- 
portions of the mighty Pan; but poetry redeemed him from 
this spectral philosophy, and he bathed his heart in beauty, 
and gazed at the golden light of heaven, and drank of the spirit 20 
of the universe, and wandered at eve by fau-y-stream or 
fountain, 

" When he saw nought but beauty, 

When he heard the voice of that Almighty One 

In every breeze that blew, or wave that naurmured" — 25 

and wedded with truth in Plato's shade, and in the writings 
of Proclus and Plotinus saw the ideas of things in the eternal 
mind, and unfolded all mysteries with the Schoolmen and 
fathomed the depths of Duns Scotus and Thomas Aquinas, 
and entered the third heaven with Jacob Behmen, and walked 30 
hand in hand with Swedenborg through the pavilions of the 
New Jerusalem, and sang his faith in the promise and in the 
word in his Religious Musings — and lowering himself from 
that dizzy height poised himself on Milton's wings, and spread 
out his thoughts in charity with the glad prose of Jeremy 35 
Taylor, and wept over Bowles's Sonnets, and studied Cowper's 
blank verse, and betook himself to Thomson's Castle of Indo- 
lence, and sported with the wits of Charles the Second's 



242 CRITICISM 

days and of Queen Anne, and relished Swift's style and that 
of the John Bull (Arbuthnot's we mean, not Mr. Croker's), 
and dallied with the British Essayists and Novelists, and 
knew all qualities of more modern writers with a learned spirit: 

5 Johnson, and Goldsmith, and Junius, and Burke, and Godwin, 
and the Sorrows of Werter, and Jean Jacques Rousseau, and 
Voltaire, and Marivaux, and Crebillon, and thousands more 
— now "laughed with Rabelais in his easy chair" or pointed 
to Hogarth, or afterwards dwelt on Claude's classic scenes, or 

10 spoke with rapture of Raphael, and compared the women at 
Rome to figures that had walked out of his pictures, or visited 
the Oratory of Pisa, and described the works of Giotto and 
Ghirlandaio and Massaccio, and gave the moral of the pic- 
ture of the Triumph of Death, where the beggars and the 

15 wretched invoke his dreadful dart, but the rich and mighty of 
the earth quail and shrink before it; and in that land of siren 
sights and sounds, saw a dance of peasant girls, and was 
charmed with lutes and gondolas, — or wandered into Ger- 
many and lost himself in the labyrinths of the Hartz Forest 

20 and of the Kantean philosophy, and amongst the cabalistic 
names of Fichte and Schelling and Lessing, and God knows 
who. This was long after; but all the former while he had 
nerved his heart and filled his eyes with tears, as he hailed the 
rising orb of liberty, since quenched in darkness and in blood, 

25 and had kindled his affections at the blaze of the French Revo- 
lution, and sang for joy, when the towers of the Bastille and 
the proud places of the insolent and the oppressor fell, and 
would have floated his bark, freighted with fondest fancies, 
across the Atlantic wave with Southey and others to seek for 

30 peace and freedom — 

"In Philarmonia's undivided dale!" 

Alas! "Frailty, thy name is Genius!'' — What is become of 

all this mighty heap of hope, of thought, of learning and 

humanity? It has ended in swallowing doses of oblivion and 

35 in writing paragraphs in the Courier. — Such and so little is 

the mind of man! 

It was not to be supposed that Mr. Coleridge could keep 



MR. COLERIDGE 243 

on at the rate he set off; he could not realize all he knew or 
thought, and less could not fix his desultory ambition ; other 
stimulants supplied the place, and kept up the intoxicating 
dream, the fever and the madness of his early impressions. 
Liberty (the philosopher's and the poet's bride) had fallen a 5 
victim, meanwhile, to the murderous practices of the hag, 
Legitimacy. Proscribed by court-hirelings, too romantic for 
the herd of vulgar politicians, our enthusiast stood at bay, 
and at last turned on che pivot of a subtle casuistry to the 
unclean side: but his discursive reason would not let him 10 
trammel himself into a poet-laureate or stamp-distributor; 
and he stopped, ere he had quite passed that well-known 
"bourne from whence no traveller returns" — and so has 
sunk into torpid, uneasy repose, tantalized by useless re- 
sources, haunted by vain imaginings, his lips idly moving, 15 
but his heart forever still, or, as the shattered chords vibrate 
of themselves, making melancholy music to the ear of mem- 
ory! Such is the fate of genius in an age when, in the unequal 
contest with sovereign wrong, every man is ground to powder 
who is not either a born slave, or who does not willingly and 20 
at once offer up the yearnings of humanity and the dic- 
tates of reason as a welcome sacrifice to besotted prejudice 
and loathsome power. 

Of all Mr. Coleridge's productions, the Ancient Manner 
is the only one that we could with confidence put into any 25 
person's hands, on whom we wished to impress a favourable 
idea of his extraordinary powers. Let whatever other ob- 
jections be made to it, it is unquestionably a work of genius 
— of wild, irregular, overwhelming imagination, and has that 
rich, varied movement in the verse, which gives a distant 30 
id6a of the lofty or changeful tones of Mr. Coleridge's voice. 
In the Chnstabel, there is one splendid passage on divided 
friendship. The Translation of Schiller's Wallenstein is also 
a masterly production in its kind, faithful and spirited. 
Among his smaller pieces there are occasional bursts of pathos 35 
and fancy, equal to what we might expect from him; but 
these form the exception, and not the rule. Such, for in- 
stance, is his affecting Sonnet to the author of the Robbers. 



244 CRITICISM 

"Schiller! that hour I would have wish'd to die, 
If through the shudd'ring midnight I had sent 
From the dark dungeon of the tower time-rent, 
That fearful voice, a famish'd father's cry — 
5 That in no after-moment aught less vast 

Might stamp me mortal! A triumphant shout 
Black horror scream'd, and all her goblin rout 
From the more with'ring scene diminish'd pass'd. 
"Ah! Bard tremendous in sublimity! 
10 > Could I behold thee in thy loftier mood, 

Wand'ring at eve, with finely frenzied eye. 

Beneath some vast old tempest-swinging wood! 
Awhile, with mute awe gazing, I would brood, 
Then weep aloud in a wild ecstasy." 

15 His Tragedy, entitled Remorse, is full of beautiful and 
striking passages; but it does not place the author in the 
first rank of dramatic writers. But if Mr. Coleridge's works 
do not place him in that rank, they injure instead of conveying 
a just idea of the man; for he himself is certainly in the first 

20 class of general intellect. 

If our author's poetry is inferior to his conversation, his 
prose is utterly abortive. Hardly a gleam is to be found in 
it of the brilliancy and richness of those stores of thought 
and language that he pours out incessantly, when they are 

25 lost like drops of water in the ground. The principal work, 
in which he has attempted to embody his general views of 
things, is the Friend, of which, though it contains some 
noble passages and fine trains of thought, prolixity and ob- 
scurity are the most frequent characteristics. 

30 No two persons can be conceived more than opposite in 
character or genius than the subject of the present and of 
the preceding sketch. Mr. Godwin, with less natural ca- 
pacity and with fewer acquired advantages, by concentrating 
his mind on some given object, and doing what he had to do 

35 with all his might, has accomplished much, and will leave more 
than one monument of a powerful intellect behind him; Mr. 
Coleridge, by dissipating his, and dallying with every subject 
by turns, has done little or nothing to justify to the world or 
to posterity the high opinion which all who have ever hear 

40 him converse, or known him intimately, with one accord 



MR. COLERIDGE 245 

entertain of him. Mr. Godwin's faculties have kept at home, 
and plied their task in the workshop of the brain, diligently 
and effectually: Mr. Coleridge's have gossiped away their 
time, and gadded about from house to house, as if life's 
business were to melt the hours in listless talk. Mr. Godwin 5 
is intent on a subject, only as it concerns himself and his repu- 
tation; he works it out as a matter of duty, and discards from 
his mind whatever does not forward his main object as im- 
pertinent and vain. 

Mr. Coleridge, on the other hand, delights in nothing but 10 
episodes and digressions, neglects whatever he undertakes to 
perform, and can act only on spontaneous impulses without 
object or method. ''He cannot be constrained by mas- 
tery." While he should be occupied with a g'ven pursuit, he 
is thinking of a thousand other things: a thousand tastes, a 15 
thousand objects tempt him, and distract his mind, which 
keeps open house, and entertains all comers; and after being 
fatigued and amused with morning calls from idle visitors, he 
finds the day consumed and its business unconcluded. Mr. 
Godwin, on the contrary, is somewhat exclusive and unsocial 20 
in his habits of mind, entertains no company but what he 
gives his whole time and attention to, and wisely writes over 
the doors of his understanding, his fancy, and his senses — 
''No admittance except on business." He has none of that^ 
fastidious refinement and false dehcacy which might lead him 25 
to balance between the endless variety of modern attain- 
ments. He does not throw away his life (nor a single half 
hour of it) in adjusting the claims of different accomplish- 
ments, and in choosing between them or making himself 
master of them all. He sets about his task (whatever it may 30 
be), and goes through it with spirit and fortitude. He has the 
happiness to think an author the greatest character in the 
world, and himself the greatest author in it. 

Mr. Coleridge, in wi-iting an harmonious stanza, would stop 
to consider whether there was not more grace and beauty in 35 
a Pas de trois, and would not proceed till he had resolved this 
question by a chain of metaphysical reasoning without end. 
Not so Mr. Godwin. That is .best to him, which he can do 



246 CRITICISM 

best. He does not waste himself in vain aspirations and 
effeminate sympathies. He is bhnd, deaf, insensible, to all 
but the trump of Fame. Plays, operas, painting, music, ball- 
rooms, wealth, fashion, titles, lords, ladies, touch him not. 

5 A.11 these are no more to him than to the magician in his cell, 
and he writes on to the end of the chapter through good report 
and evil report. Pingo in eternitatem is his motto. He 
neither envies nor admires what others are, but is contented 
to be what he is, and strives to do the utmost he can. Mr. 

10 Coleridge has flirted with the Muses as with a set of mistresses: 
Mr. Godwin has been married twice, to Reason and to Fancy, 
and has to boast no short-lived progeny by each. 

So to speak, he has valves belonging to his mind, to regulate 
the quantity of gas admitted into it, so that like the bare. 

15 unsightly, but well-compacted steam- vessel, it cuts its liquid 
way, and arrives at its promised end: while Mr. Coleridge's 
bark, "taught with the little nautilus to sail," the sport of 
every breath, dancing to every wave, 

"Youth at its prow, and Pleasure at its helm," 

20 flutters its gaudy pennons in the air, glitters in the sun, but 
we wait in vain to hear of its arrival in the destined harbour. 
Mr. Godwin, with less variety and vividness, with less subt- 
lety and susceptibility both of thought and feeling, has had 
firmer nerves, a more determined purpose, a more com- 

25 prehensive grasp of his subject; and the results are as we find 
them. Each has met with his reward: for justice has, after 
all, been done to the pretensions of each ; and we must, in all 
cases, use means to ends! 

It was a misfortune to any man of talent to be born in the 

30 latter end of the last century. Genius stopped the way of 
Legitimacy, and therefore it was to be abated, crushed, or 
set aside as a nuisance. The spirit of the monarchy was at 
variance with the spirit of the age. The flame of liberty, the 
light of intellect, was to be extinguished with the sword — or 

35 with slander, whose edge is sharper than the sword. The war 
between power and reason was carried on by the first of these 
abroad, by the last at home. No quarter was given (then or 



MR. COLERIDGE 247 

now) by the Government-critics, the authorized censors of the 
press, to those who followed the dictates of independence, who 
listened to the. voice of the tempter Fancy. Instead of gath- 
ering fruits and flowers, immortal fruits and amaranthine 
flowers, they soon found themselves beset not only by a host 5 
of prejudices, but assailed with all the engines of power; 
by nicknames, by lies, by all the arts of malice, interest and 
hypocrisy, without the possibility of their defending them- 
selves "from the pelting of the pitiless storm." that poured 
down upon them from the strongholds of corruption and 10 
authority. 

The philosophers, the dry abstract reasoners, submitted 
to this reverse pretty well, and armed themselves with 
patience "as with triple steel," to bear discomfiture, perse- 
cution, and disgrace. But the poets, the creatures of sym- 15 
pathy, could not stand the frowns both of king and people. 
They did not like to be shut out when places and pensions, 
when the critic's praises, and the laurel wreath were about to 
be distributed, They did not stomach being sent to Coventnj, 
and Mr. Coleridge sounded a retreat for them by the help of 20 
casuistry and a musical voice. — "His words were hollow, 
but they pleased the ear" of his friends of the Lake School, 
who turned back disgusted and panic-struck from the dry 
desert of unpopularity, like Hassan the camel-driver, 

"And curs'd the hour, and curs'd the luckless day, 25 

When first from Shiraz' walls they bent their way." 

They are safely inclosed there. But Mr. Coleridge did 
not enter with them; pitching his tent upon the barren waste 
without, and having no abiding place nor city of refuge! 



MR. WORDSWORTH 

Mr. Wordsworth's genius is a pure emanation of the 
Spirit of the Age. Had he hved in any other period of the 
world, he would never have been heard of. As it is, he has 
some difficulty to contend with the hebetude of his intellect 
5 and the meanness of his subject. With him "lowliness is 
young ambition's ladder:" but he finds it a toil to climb in this 
way the steep of Fame. His homely Muse can hardly raise 
her wing from the ground, nor spread her hidden glories to 
the sun. He has "no figures nor no fantasies which busy 

10 passion draws in the brains of men:" neither the gorgeous 
machinery of mythologic lore, nor the splendid colours of 
poetic diction. His style is vernacular: he delivers household 
truths. He sees nothing loftier than human hopes, nothing 
deeper than the human heart. This he probes, this he 

15 tampers with, this he poises, with all its incalculable weight 
of thought and feeling, in his hands, and at the same time 
calms the throbbing pulses of his own heart by keeping his 
eye ever fixed on the face of nature. If he can make the life- 
blood flow from the wounded breast, this is the hving colour- 

20 ing with which he paints his verse: if he can assuage the pain 
or close up the wound with the balm of solitary musing, or the 
healing power of plants and herbs and "skyey influences," 
this is the sole triumph of his art. He takes the simplest 
elements of nature and of the human mind, the mere abstract 

25 conditions inseparable from our being, and tries to compound 
a new system of poetry from them; and has perhaps succeeded 
as weU as anyone could. "Nihil humani a me alienum puto^' 
— is the motto of his works. He thinks nothing low or indiffer- 
ent of which this can be affirmed: everything that professes 

30 to be more than this, that is not an absolute essence of truth 
and feeling, he holds to be vitiated, false, and spurious. In 

24§ 



MR. WORDSWORTH 249 

a word, his poetry is founded on setting up an opposition 
(and pushing it to the utmost length) between the natural 
and the artificial, between the spirit of humanity and the 
spirit of fashion and of the world. 

It is one of the innovations of the time. It partakes of, 5 
and is carried along with, the revolutionary movement of 
our age: the political changes of the day were the model on 
which he formed and conducted his poetical experiments. 
His Muse (it cannot be denied, and without this we cannot 
explain its character at all) is a levelling one. It proceeds on 10 
a principle of equality, and strives to reduce all things to the 
same standard. It is distinguished by a proud humility. It 
relies upon its own resources, and disdains external show and 
relief. It takes the commonest events and objects, as a test 
to prove that nature is always interesting from its inherent 15 
truth and beauty, without any of the ornaments of dress or 
pomp of circumstances to set it off. Hence the unaccountable 
mixture of seeming simplicity and real abstruseness in the 
Lijrical Ballads. Fools have laughed at, wise men scarcely 
understand, them. He takes a subject or a story merely as 20 
pegs or loops to hang thought and feehng on; the incidents 
are trifling, in proportion to his contempt for imposing ap- 
pearances; the reflections are profound, according to the 
gravity and aspiring pretensions of his mind. 

His popular, inartificial style gets rid (at a blow) of all the 25 
trappings of verse, of all the high places of poetry: "the 
cloud-capt towers, the solemn temples, the gorgeous palaces, " 
are swept to the ground, and ''like the baseless fabric of a 
vision, leave not a wreck behind." All the traditions of 
learning, all the superstitions of age, are obliterated and 30 
effaced. We begin de novo on a tabula rasa of poetry. The 
purple pall, the nodding plume of tragedy are exploded as 
mere pantomime and trick, to return to the simplicity of 
truth and nature. Kings, queens, priests, nobles, the altar 
and the throne, the distinctions of rank, birth, wealth, power, 35 
"the judge's robe, the marshal's truncheon, the ceremony that 
to great ones 'longs," are not to be found here. The author 
tramples on the pride of art with greater pride. The Ode and 



250 CRITICISM 

Epode, the Strophe and the Antistrophe, he laughs to scorn. 
The harp of Homer, the trump of Pindar and of Alcaeus, are 
still. The decencies of costume, the decorations of vanity are 
stripped off without mercy as barbarous, idle, and Gothic. 

5 The jewels in the crisped hair, the diadem on the pohshed 
brow, are thought meretricious, theatrical, vulgar; and 
nothing contents his fastidious taste beyond a simple garland 
of flowers. Neither does he avail himself of the advantages 
which nature or accident holds out to him. He chooses to 

10 have his subject a foil to his invention, to owe nothing but to 
himself. 

He gathers manna in the wilderness; he strikes the barren 
rock for the gushing moisture. He elevates the mean by the 
strength of his own aspirations; he clothes the naked with 

15 beauty and grandeur from the stores of his own recollections. 
No cypress grove loads his verse with funeral pomp : but his 
imagination lends "a sense of joy 

"To the bare trees and mountains bare, 
And grass in the green field." 

20 No storm, no shipwreck startles us by its horrors: but the 
rainbow lifts its head in the cloud, and the breeze sighs through 
the withered fern. No sad vicissitude of fate, no overwhelm- 
ing catastrophe in nature deforms his page: but the dew-drop 
glitters on the bending flower, the tear collects in the glisten- 

25 ing eye. 

"Beneath the hills, along the flowery vales, 
The generations are prepared; the pangs, 
The internal pangs are ready; the dread strife 
Of poor humanity's afflicted will, 
30 Struggling in vain with ruthless destiny. " 

As the lark ascends from its low bed on fluttering wing, and 
salutes the morning skies, so Mr. Wordsworth's unpretending 
Muse in russet guise scales the summits of reflection, while it 
makes the round earth its footstool and its home! 
35 Possibly a good deal of this may be regarded as the effect 
of disappointed views and an inverted ambition. Prevented 
by native pride and indolence from climbing the ascent of 



MR. WORDSWORTH 251 

learning or greatness, taught by political opinions to say to 
the vain pomp and glory of the world, ''I hate ye," seeing 
the path of classical and artificial poetry blocked up by the 
cumbrous ornaments of style and turgid commonplaces, so 
that nothing more could be achieved in that direction but 5 
by the most ridiculous bombast or the tamest servility, he has 
turned back, partly from the bias of his mind, partly perhaps 
from a judicious policy — has struck into the sequestered 
vale of humble life, sought out the Muse among sheep-cotes, 
and hamlets, and the peasant's mountain-haunts, has dis- 10 
carded all the tinsel pageantry of verse, and endeavoured 
(not in vain) to aggrandise the trivial, and add the charm of 
novelty to the familiar. No one has shown the same imagi- 
nation in raising trifles into importance: no one has displayed 
the same pathos in treating of the simplest feeHngs of the 15 
heart. Reserved, yet haughty, having no unruly or violent 
passions (or those passions having been early suppressed), 
Mr. Wordsworth has passed his life in solitary musing or in 
daily converse with the face of nature. He exemplifies in an 
eminent degree the power of association; for his poetry has 20 
no other source or character. He has dwelt among pastoral 
scenes, till each object has become connected with a thousand 
feelings, a link in the chain of thought, a fibre of his own 
heart. Everyone is by habit and familiarity strongly at- 
tached to the place of his birth, or to objects that recall the 25 
most pleasing and eventful circumstances of his life. 

But to the author of the Lyrical Ballads nature is a kind of 
home; and he may be said to take a personal interest in the 
universe. There is no image so insignificant that it has not in 
some mood or other found the way into his heart : no sound 30 
that. does not awaken the memory of other years. 

"To him the meanest flower that blows can give 
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears." 

The daisy looks up to him with sparkling eye as an old ac- 
quaintance: the cuckoo haunts him with sounds of early youth 35 
not to be expressed: a linnet's nest startles him with boyish 
dehght: an old withered thorn is weighed down with a heap 



252 CRITICISM 

of recollections: a grey cloak, seen on some wild moor, torn 
by the wind or drenched in the rain, afterwards becomes an 
object of imagination to him: even the lichens on the rock 
have a life and being in his thoughts. He has described all 

5 these objects in a way and with an intensity of feeling that no 
one else had done before him, and has given a new view or as- 
pect of nature. He is in this sense the most original poet now 
living, and the one whose writings could the least be spared: 
for they have no substitute elsewhere. The vulgar do not 

10 read them; the learned, who see all things through books, do 
not understand them; the great despise. The fashionable 
may ridicule them: but the author has created himself an 
interest in the heart of the retired and lonely student of 
nature, which can never die. 

15 Persons of this class will still continue to feel what he has 
felt: he has expressed what they might in vain wish to ex- 
press, except with glistening eye and faltering tongue! There 
is a lofty, philosophic tone, a thoughtful humanity, infused 
into his pastoral vein. Remote from the passions and events 

20 of the great world, he has communicated interest and dignity 
to the primal movements of the heart of man, and ingrafted 
his own conscious reflections on the casual thoughts of hinds 
and shepherds. Nursed amidst the grandeur of mountain 
scenery, he has stooped to have a nearer view of the daisy 

25 under his feet, or plucked a branch of white-thorn from the 
spray: but, in describing it, his mind seems imbued with the 
majesty and solemnity of the objects around him. The tall 
rock lifts its head in the erectness of his spirit; the cataract 
roars in the sound of his verse; and in its dim and mysterious 

30 meaning the mists seem to gather in the hollows of Helvellyn, 
and the forked Skiddaw hovers in the distance. There is 
little mention of mountainous scenery in Mr. Wordsworth's 
poetry; but by internal evidence one might be almost sure 
that it was written in a mountainous country, from its bare- 

35ness, its simplicity, its loftiness, and its depth! 

His later philosophic productions have a somewhat differ- 
ent character. They are a departure from, a dereliction of, 
his first principles. They are classical and courtly. They 



MR. WORDSWORTH 253 

are polished in style without being gaudy, dignified in subject 
without affectation. They seem to have been composed not 
in a cottage at Grasmere, but among the half-inspired groves 
and stately recollections of Cole-Orton. We might allude 
in particular, for examples of what we mean, to the lines on a 5 
Picture by Claude Lorraine and to the exquisite poem, en- 
titled Laodamia. The last of these breathes the pure spirit 
of the finest fragments of antiquity — the sweetness, the 
gravity, the strength, the beauty and the languor of death — 

"Calm contemplation and majestic pains." 10 

Its glossy brilliancy arises from the perfection of the finishing 
like that of a careful sculpture, not from gaudy colouring. 
The texture of the thoughts has the smoothness and solidity 
of marble. It is a poem that might be read aloud in Elysium, 
and the spirits of departed heroes and sages would gather 15 
round to listen to it! 

Mr., Wordsworth's philosophic poetry, with a less glowing 
aspect and less tumult in the veins than Lord Byron's on 
similar occasions, bends a calmer and keener eye on mor- 
tality; the impression, if less vivid, is more pleasing and 20 
permanent; and we confess it (perhaps it is a want of taste 
and proper feeling) that there are lines and poems of our 
author's, that we think of ten times for once that we recur to 
any of Lord Byron's. Or if there are any of the latter's writ- 
ings that we can dwell upon in the same way, that is, as 25 
lasting and heart-felt sentiments, it is when laying aside his 
usual pomp and pretension, he descends with Mr. Words- 
worth to the common ground of a disinterested humanity. 
It may be considered as characteristic of our poet's writings, 
that they either make no impression on the mind at all, seem 30 
mere nonsense-verses, or that they leave a mark behind them 
that never wears out. They either 

"Fall blunted from the indurated breast," 

without any perceptible result, or they absorb it like a passion. 
To one class of readers he appears sublime, to another (and 35 
we fear the largest) ridiculous. He has probably realised 



254 CRITICISM 

Milton's wish, — "and fit audience found, though few:" but 
we suspect he is not reconciled to the alternative. 

There are delightful passages in The Excursion, both of 
natural description and of inspired reflection (passages of the 
5 latter kind that in the sound of the thoughts and of the 
swelling language resemble heavenly symphonies, mournful 
requiems over the grave of human hopes); but we must add, 
in justice and in sincerity, that we think it impossible that this 
work should ever become popular, even in the same degree 

10 as the Lyrical Ballads. It affects a system without having 
any inteUigible clue to one, and, instead of unfolding a prin- 
ciple in various and striking lights, repeats the same conclu- 
sions till they become flat and insipid. Mr. Wordsworth's 
mind is obtuse, except as it is the organ and the receptacle of 

15 accumulated feelings; it is not analytic, but synthetic; it is 
reflecting, rather than theoretical. The Excursion, we believe, 
fell still-born from the press. There was something abortive, 
and clumsy, and ill-judged in the attempt. It was long and 
laboured. The personages, for the most part, were low, the 

20 fare rustic; the plan raised expectations which were not ful- 
filled, and the effect was like being ushered into a stately hall 
and invited to sit down to a splendid banquet in the company 
of clowns, and with nothing but successive courses of apple- 
dumplings served up. It was not even toujours perdrix! 

25 Mr. Wordsworth, in his person, is above the middle size, 
with marked features and an air somewhat stately and quix- 
otic. He reminds one of some of Holbein's heads: grave, 
saturnine, with a slight indication of sly humour, kept under 
by the manners of the age or by the pretensions of the person. 

30 He has a peculiar sweetness in his smile, and great depth and 
manliness and a rugged harmony in the tones of his voice. 
His manner of reading his own poetry is particularly imposing; 
and in his favourite passages his eye beams with preternatural 
lustre, and the meaning labours slowly up from his swelling 

35 breast. No one who has seen him at these moments could go 
away with an impression that he was a "man of no mark or 
likelihood." Perhaps the comment of his face and voice is 
necessary to convey a full idea of his poetry. His language 



MR. WORDSWORTH 255 

may not be intelligible; but his manner is not to be mistaken. 
It is clear that he is either mad or inspired. In company, 
even in a tete-d-lete, Mr. Wordsworth is often silent, indolent, 
and reserved. If he is become verbose and oracular of late 
years, he was not so in his better days. He threw out a bold 5 
or an indifferent remark without either effort or pretension, 
and relapsed into musing again. He shone most (because he 
seemed most roused and animated) in reciting his own poetry, 
or in talking about it. He sometimes gave striking views of 
his feelings and trains of association in composing certain 10 
passages; or if one did not always understand his distinctions, 
still there was no want of interest: there was a latent meaning 
worth inquiring into, like a vein of ore that one cannot exactly 
hit upon at the moment, but of which there are sure indi- 
cations. His standard of poetry is high and severe, almost 15 
to exclusiveness. He admits of nothing below, scarcely of 
anything above, himself. It is fine to hear him talk of the 
way in which certain subjects should have been treated by 
eminent poets, according to his notions of the art. Thus he 
finds fault with Dryden's description of Bacchus in the Alex-20 
ander's Feast, as if he were a mere good-looking youth or 
boon companion — 

"Flushed with a purple grace, 
He shows his honest face" — 

instead of representing the god returning from the conquest 25 
of India, crowned with vine-leaves and drawn by panthers, 
and followed by troops of satyrs, of wild men and animals 
that he had tamed. You would think, in hearing him speak 
on this subject, that you saw Titian's picture of the meeting 
of Bacchus and Ariadne — so classic were his conceptions, so 30 
glowing his style. 

Milton is his great idol, and he sometimes dares to compare 
himself with him. His Sonnets, indeed, have something of 
the same high-raised tone and prophetic spirit. Chaucer is 
another prime favourite of his, and he has been at the pains to 35 
modernize some of the Canterbury Tales. Those persons 
who look upon Mr. Wordsworth as a merely puerile writer, 



256 CRITICISM 

must be rather at a loss to account for his strong predilection 
for such geniuses as Dante and Michael Angelo. We do not 
think our author has any very cordial sympathy with Shake- 
speare. How should he? Shakespeare was the least of an 

6 egotist of anybody in the world. He does not much relish 
the variety and scope of dramatic composition. '' He hates 
those interlocutions between Lucius and Caius." Yet Mr. 
Wordsworth himself wrote a tragedy when he was young; 
and we have heard the following energetic lines quoted from 

10 it, as put into the mouth of a person smit with remorse for 
some rash crime: 

" Action is momentary, 

The motion of a muscle this way or that; 
Suffering is long, obscure, and infinite!" 

15 Perhaps for want of light and shade, and the unshacklfed 
spirit of the drama, this performance was never brought 
forward. Our critic has a great dislike to Gray, and a fond- 
ness for Thomson and Collins. It is mortifying to hear him 
speak of Pope and Dryden whom, because they have been 

20 supposed to have all the possible excellences of poetry, he will 
allow to have none. 

Nothing, however, can be fairer, or more amusing than the 
way in which he sometimes exposes the unmeaning verbiage of 
modern poetry. Thus in the beginning of Dr. Johnson's 

25 Vanity of Human Wishes — 

"Let observation with extensive view 
Survey mankind from China to Peru" — 

he says there is a total want of imagination accompanying 
the words; the same idea is repeated three times under the 
30 disguise of a different phraseology. It comes to this: "let 
observation with extensive observation observe mankind;" 
or take away the first line, and the second, 

"Survey mankind from China to Peru," 

literally conveys the whole. Mr. Wordsworth is, we must 

35 say, a perfect Drawcansir as to prose writers. He complains 

of the dry reasoners and matter-of-fact people for their want 



MR. WORDSWORTH 257 

of passion; and he is jealous of the rhetorical declaimers and 
rhapsodists as trenching on the province of poetry. He 
condemns all French writers (as well of poetry as prose) in the 
lump. His list in this way is indeed small. He approves of 
Walton's Angler, Paley, and some other writers of an inoffen- 5 
sive modesty of pretension. He also likes books of voyages 
and travels, and Robinson Crusoe. In art, he greatly esteems 
Bewick's woodcuts and Waterloo's sylvan etchings. But he 
sometimes takes a higher tone, and gives his mind fair play. 
We have known him enlarge with a noble intelligence and 10 
enthusiasm on Nicolas Poussin's fine landscape compositions, 
pointing out the unity of design that pervades them, the super- 
mtending mind, the imaginative principle that brings all 
to bear on the same end; and declaring he would not give a 
rush for any landscape that did not express the time of day, 15 
the climate, the period of the world it was meant to illustrate, 
or had not this character of wholeness in it. 

His eye also does justice to Rembrandt's fine and masterly 
effects. In the way in which that artist works something out 
of nothing, and transforms the stump of a tree, a common 20 
figure, into an ideal object by the gorgeous light and shade 
thrown upon it, he perceives an analogy to his own mode of 
investing the minute details of nature with an atmosphere of 
sentiment, and in pronouncing Rembrandt to be a man of 
genius, feels that he strengthens his own claim to the title. 25 
It has been said of Mr. Wordsworth, that ''he hates con- 
chology, that he hates the Venus of Medici." But these, we 
hope, are mere epigrams and jeux d'esprit, as far from truth 
as they are free from malice: a sort of rurming satire or 
critical clenches — 30 

"Where one for sense and one for rhyme 
Is quite sufficient at one time." 

Ws think, however, that if Mr. Wordsworth had been a 
more liberal and candid critic, he would have been a more 
sterling writer. If a greater number of sources of pleasure had 35 
been open to him, he would have communicated pleasure to 
the world more frequently. Had he been less fastidious in 



258 CRITICISM 

pronouncing sentence on the works of others, his own would 
have been received more favourably, and treated more le- 
niently. The current of liis feelings is deep, but narrow; the 
range of his understanding is lofty and aspiring rather than 
5 discursive. The force, the originality, the absolute truth 
and identity, with which he feels some things, makes him in- 
different to so many others. The simplicity and enthusiasm 
of his feelings, with respect to nature, render him bigoted and 
intolerant in his judgments of men and things. But it hap- 

10 pens to him, as to others, that his strength lies in his weakness; 
and perhaps we have no right to complain. We might get 
rid of the cynic and the egotist, and find in his stead a com- 
monplace man. We should "take the good the gods pro- 
vide us:" a fine and original vein of poetry is not one of their 

15 most contemptible gifts; and the rest is scarcely worth think- 
ing of, except as it may be a mortification to those who expect 
perfection from human nature, or who have been idb enough 
at some period of their hves to deify men of genius as pos- 
sessing claims above it. But this is a chord that jars, and 

20 we shall not dwell upon it. 

Lord Byron we have called, according to the old proverb, 
*'the spoiled child of fortune:" Mr. Wordsworth might plead, 
in mitigation of some peculiarities, that he is "the spoiled 
child of disappointment." We are convinced, if he had been 

25 early a popular poet, he would have borne his honours meekly, 
and would have been a person of great bonhomie and frank- 
ness of disposition. But the sense of injustice and of unde- 
served ridicule sours the temper and narrows the views. 
To have produced works of genius, and to find them neglected 

30 or treated with scorn, is one of the heaviest trials of human 
patience. We exaggerate our own merits when they are 
denied by others, and are apt to grudge and cavil at every 
particle of praise bestowed on those to whom we feel a conscious 
superiority. In mere self-defense we turn against the world 

35 when it turns against us, brood over the undeserved slights 
we receive; and thus the genial current of the soul is stopped, 
or vents itself in effusions of petulance and self-conceit. 
Mr. Wordsworth has thought too much of contemporary 



MR. WORDSWORTH 259 

critics and criticism, and less than he ought of the award 
of posterity and of the opinion, we do not say of private 
friends, but of those who were made so by their admiration 
of his genius. 

He did not court popularity by a conformity to established 5 
models, and he ought not to have been surprised that his 
originahty was not understood as a matter of course. He has 
gnawed too much on the bridle, and has often thrown out 
crusts to the critics, in mere defiance or as a point of honour 
when he was challenged, which otherwise his own good sense 10 
would have withheld. We suspect that Mr. Wordsworth's 
feelings are a Httle morbid in this respect, or that he resents 
censure more than he is gratified by praise. Otherwise, the 
tide has turned much in his favour of late years. He has a 
large body of determined partisans, and is at present suffi- 15 
ciently in request with the pubhc to save or reUeve him from 
the last necessity to which a man of genius can be reduced — 
that of becoming the God of his own idolatry! 



HAMLET 

This is that Hamlet the Dane, whom we read of in our 
youth, and whom we may be said ahnost to remember in our 
after years; he who made that famous sohloquy on life, who 
gave the advice to the players, who thought "this goodly 
5 frame, the earth, a steril promontory, and this brave o'er- 
hanging firmanent, the an-, this majestical roof fretted with 
golden fire, a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours;" 
whom "man delighted not, nor woman neither;" he who 
talked with the grave-diggers, and moralised on Yorick's 

10 skull; the school-fellow of Rosencrans and Guildenstern at 
Wittenberg; the friend of Horatio; the lover of Ophelia; 
he that was mad and sent to England; the slow avenger of 
his father's death; who Hved at the court of Horwendillus 
five hundred years before we were born, but all whose 

15 thoughts we seem to know as well as we do our own, because 
we have read them in Shakespeare. 

Hamlet is a name; his speeches and saymgs but the idle 
coinage of the poet's brain. What then, are they not real? 
They are as real as our own thoughts. Their reality is in the 

20 reader's mind. It is we who are Hamlet. This play has a 
prophetic truth, which is above that of history. Whoever 
has become thoughtful and melancholy through his own 
mishaps or those of others; whoever has borne about with 
him the clouded brow of reflection, and thought himself 

25 "too much i' th' sun;" whoever has seen the golden lamp of 
day dunmed by envious mists rising in his own breast, and 
could find in the world before him only a dull blank with 
nothing left remarkable in it; whoever has known "the pangs 
of despised love, the insolence of office, or the spiu-ns which 

30 patient merit of the unworthy takes;" he who has felt his 
mind sink within him, and sadness cling to his heart like a 
malady, who has had his hopes blighted and his youth stag- 
gered by the apparitions of strange things; who cannot be 

260 



HAMLET 261 

well at ease, while he sees evil hovering near him like a spectre; 
whose powers of action have been eaten up by thought, he to 
whom the universe seems infinite, and himself nothing; whose 
bitterness of soul makes him careless of consequences, and 
who goes to a play as his best resource to shove off, to a 5 
second remove, the evils of life by a mock representation of 
them — this is the true. Hamlet. 

We have been so used to this tragedy that we hardly know 
how to criticise it any more than we should know how to de- 
scribe our own faces. But we must make such observations as 10 
we can. It is one of Shakespeare's plays that we think of 
the oftenest, because it abounds most in striking reflections on 
human life, and because the distresses of Hamlet are trans- 
ferred, by the turn of his mind, to the general account of 
humanity. Whatever happens to him we apply to ourselves, 15 
because he applies it to himself as a means of general reason- 
ing. He is a great moraliser; and what makes him worth 
attending to is, that he moralises on his own feelings and 
experience. He is not a commonplace pedant. If Lear 
shews the greatest depth of passion, Hamlet is the most 20 
remarkable for the ingenuity, originality, and unstudied 
development of character. Shakespeare had more magna- 
nimity than any other poet, and he has shown more of it in 
this play than in any other. There is no attempt to force 
an interest: everything is left for time and circumstances to 25 
unfold. The attention is excited without effort, the incidents 
succeed each other as matters of course, the characters think 
and speak and act just as they might do, if left entirely to 
themselves. There is no set purpose, no straining at a point. 
The observations are suggested by the passing scene — the 30 
gusts of passion come and go hke sounds of music borne on 
the wind. The whole play is an exact transcript of what 
might be supposed to have taken place at the court of Den- 
mark, at the remote period of time fixed upon, before the mod- 
ern refinements in morals and manners were heard of. It 35 
would have been interesting enough to have been admitted 
as a by-stander in such a scene, at such a time, to have heard 
and seen something of what was going on. But here we are 



262 CRITICISM 

more than spectators. We have not only "the outward 
pageants and the signs of grief;" but "we have that within 
which passes show." We read the thoughts of the heart, 
we catch the passions Hving as they rise. Other dramatic 
5 writers give us very fine versions and paraphrases of nature: 
but Shakespeare, together with his own comments, gives us 
the original text, that we may judge for ourselves. This is a 
very great advantage. 

The character of Hamlet stands quite by itself. It is 
10 not a character marked by strength of will or even of 
passion, but by refinement of thought and sentiment. Ham- 
let is as httle of the hero as a man can well be: but he is a 
young and princely novice, full of high enthusiasm and quick 
sensibility — the sport of circumstances, questioning with 
15 fortune and refining on his own feelings, and forced from the 
natural bias of his disposition by the strangeness of his 
situation. He seems incapable of deliberate action, and is 
only hurried into extremities on the spur of the occasion, 
when he has no time to reflect, as in the scene where he kills 
20 Polonius, and again, where he alters the letters which Rosen- 
crans and Guildenstern are taking with them to England, 
purporting his death. At other times, when he is most bound 
to act, he remains puzzled, undecided, and sceptical, dallies 
with his purposes, till the occasion is lost, and always finds 
25 some pretence to relapse into indolence and thoughtfulness 
again. For this reason he refuses to kill the King when he 
is at his prayers, and by a refinement in malice, which is in 
truth only an excuse for his own want of resolution, defers his 
revenge to some more fatal opportunity, when he shall be 
30 engaged in some act ''that has no relish of salvation in it." 
'■ He kneels and prays, 
And now I'll do 't, and so he goes to heaven, 
And so am I reveng'd: that would he scanned. 
He kill'd my father, and for that, 
35 I, his sole son, send him to heaven. 

Why this is reward, not revenge. 
Up sword and know thou a more horrid time, 
When he is drunk, asleep, or in a rage." 

He is the prince of philosophical speculators, and because he 



HAMLET 263 

cannot have his revenge perfect, according to the most re- 
fined idea his wish can form, he misses it altogether. So he 
scruples to trust the suggestions of the Ghost, contrives the 
scene of the play to have surer proof of his uncle's guilt, and 
then rests satisfied with this confirmation of his suspicions, and 5 
the success of his experiment, instead of acting upon it. Yet 
he is sensible of his owti weakness, taxes himself with it, and 
tries to reason himself out of it. 

''How all occasions do inform against me. 
And spur my dull revenge! What is a man, 10 

If his chief good and market of his time 
Be but to sleep and feed? A beast; no more. 
Sure he that made us with such large discourse, 
Looking before and after, gave us not 

That capability and god-like reason 15 

To rust in us unus'd: now whether it be 
Bestial oblivion, or some craven scruple 
Of thinking too precisely on th' event, — 
A thought which quarter'd, hath but one part wisdom, 
And ever three parts coward; — I do not know 20 

Why yet I live to say, this thing's to do; 
Sith I have cause, and will, and strength, and means 
To do it. Examples gross as earth excite me: 
Witness this army of such mass and charge. 
Led by a delicate and tender prince, 25 

Whose spirit with divine ambition puff'd, 
Makes mouths at the invisible event, 
Exposing what is mortal and unsure 
To all that fortune, death, and danger dare, 
Even for an egg-shell. 'Tis not to be great, 30 

Never to stir without great argument; 
But greatly to find quarrel in a straw, 
When honour's at the stake. How stand I then, 
That have a father kill'd, a mother stain'd, 
Excitements of my reason and my blood, 35 

And let all sleep, while to my shame I see 
The imminent death of twenty thousand men, 
That fantasy and trick of fame. 
Go to their graves like beds, fight for a plot 
Whereon the numbers cannot try the cause, 40 

Which is not tomb enough and continent 
To hide the slain? — O. from this time forth, 
My thoughts be bloody or be nothing worth." 

Still he does nothing; and this very speculation on his own in- 



264 CRITICISM 

firmity only affords him another occasion for indulging it. It 
is not for any want of attachnient to his father or abhorrence 
of his murder that Hamlet is thus dilatory, but it is more to 
his taste to indulge his imagination in reflecting upon the 
5 enormity of the crime and refining on his schemes of vengeance, 
than to put them into immediate practice. His ruling passion 
is to think, not to act: and any vague pretence that flatters 
this propensity instantly diverts him from his previous pur- 
poses. 

10 The moral perfection of this character has been called in 
question, we think, by those who did not understand it. It 
is more interesting than according to rules: amiable, though 
not faultless. The ethical delineations of ''that noble and 
liberal casuist" (as Shakespeare has been well called) do not 

15 exhibit the drab-coloured quakerism of morality. His plays 
are not copied either from the Whole Duty of Man or from 
The Academy of Compliments! We confess, we are a little 
shocked at the want of refinement in those who are shocked 
at the want of refinement in Hamlet. The want of punc- 

20 tilious exactness in his behaviour either partakes of the 
"license of the time," or else belongs to the very excess of 
intellectual refinement in the character which makes the 
common rules of life, as well as his own purposes, sit loose 
upon him. He may be said to be amenable only to the 

25 tribunal of his own thoughts, and is too much taken up with 
the airy world of contemplation to lay as much stress as he 
ought on the practical consequences of things. His habitual 
principles of action are unhinged and out of joint with the 
time. His conduct to Ophelia is quite natural in his cir- 

30 cumstances. It is that of assumed severity only. It is the 
effect of disappointed hope, of bitter regrets, of affection 
suspended, not obliterated, by the distractions of the scene 
around him! Amidst the natural and preternatural horrors 
of his situation, he might be excused in delicacy from carrying 

35 on a regular courtship. When "his father's spirit was in 
arms," it was not a time for the son to make love in. He 
could neither marry Ophelia, nor wound her mind by ex- 
plaining the cause of his alienation, which he durst hardly 



HAMLET 265 

trust himself to think of. It would have taken him years to 
have come to a direct explanation on the point. In the 
harassed state of his mind, he could not have done otherwise 
than he did. His conduct does not contradict what he says 
when he sees her funeral, 5 

"I loved Ophelia: forty thousand brothers 
Could not with all their quantity of love 
Make up my sum." 

Nothing can be more affecting or beautiful than the Queen's 
apostrophe to Ophelia on throwing the flowers into the grave. 10 

"Sweets to the sweet, farewell. 
I hop'd thou should'st have been my Hamlet's wife: 
I thought thy bride-bed to have deck'd, sweet maid, 
And not have strew'd thy grave." 

Shakespeare was thoroughly a master of the mixed motives 15 
of human character, and he here shews us the Queen, who was 
so criminal in some respects, not without sensibility and 
affection in other relations of life. — Ophelia is a character 
almost too exquisitely touching to be dwelt upon. rose 
of May, flower too soon faded! Her love, her madness, her 20 
death, are described with the truest touches of tenderness and 
pathos. It is a character which nobody but Shakespeare could 
have drawn in the way that he has done, and to the concep- 
tion of which there is not even the smallest approach, except 
in some of the old romantic ballads.^ Her brother, Laertes, 25 
is a character we do not like so well : he is too hot and choleric, 
and somewhat rhodomontade. Polonius is a perfect charac- 
ter in its kind; nor is there any foundation for the objections 
which have been made to the consistency of this part. It is 
said that he acts very foolishly and talks very sensibly. 30 
There is no inconsistency in that. Again, that he talks wisely 
at one time and foolishly at another; that his advice to Laertes 

1 In the account of her death, a friend has pointed out an instance 
of the poet's exact observation of nature: — 

"There is a willow growing o'er a brook, 35 

That shows its hoary leaves i' th' glassy stream." 
The inside of the leaves of the willow, next the water, is of a whitish 
colour, and the reflection would therefore be "hoary." 



266 CRITICISM 

is very sensible, and his advice to the King and Queen on the 
subject of Hamlet's madness very ridiculous. But he gives 
the one as a father, and is sincere in it; he gives the other as a 
mere courtier, a busy-body, and is accordingly officious, 
5 garrulous, and impertinent. In short, Shakespeare has been 
accused of inconsistency in this and other characters, only 
because he has kept up the distinction which there is in 
nature, between the understandings and the moral habits of 
men, between the absurdity of their ideas and the absurdity 

10 of their motives. Polonius is not a fool, but he makes him- 
self so. His folly, whether in his actions or speeches, comes 
under the head of impropriety of intention. 

We do not like to see our author's plays acted, and least of 
all, Hamlet. There is no play that suffers so much in being 

15 transferred to the stage. Hamlet himself seems hardly 
capable of being acted. Mr. Kemble unavoidably fails in 
this character from a want of ease and variety. The charac- 
ter of Hamlet is made up of undulating lines; it has the yield- 
ing flexibility of "a wave o' th' sea." Mr. Kemble plays it 

20 like a man in armour, with a determined inveteracy of pur- 
pose, in one undeviating straight line, which is as remote 
from the natural grace and refined susceptibility of the char- 
acter, as the sharp angles and abrupt starts which Mr. Kean 
introduces into the part. Mr. Kean's Hamlet is as much too 

25 splenetic and rash as Mr. Kemble's is too deliberate and for- 
mal. His manner is too strong and pointed. He throws a 
severity, approaching to virulence, into the common obser- 
vations and answers. There is nothing of this in Hamlet. 
He is, as it were, wrapped up in his reflections, and only 

SO thinks aloud. There should therefore be no attempt to 
impress what he says upon others by a studied exaggeration 
of emphasis or manner; no talking at his hearers. There 
should be as much of the gentleman and scholar as possible 
infused into the part, and as little of the actor. A pensive 

35 air of sadness should sit reluctantly upon his brow, but no 
appearance of fixed and sullen gloom. He is full of weakness 
and melancholy, but there is no harshness in his nature. He 
is the most amiable of misanthropes. 



NOTES 

My First Acquaintance With Poets 

The first essay in Winterslow, 1839. It appeared originally in The 
Liberal in 1823, anjd was an expansion of a letter in The Examiner in 
1817. 

The essay is an account of his first awakening to poetry through 
his acquaintance with Coleridge and Wordsworth. 

1, 1. W — m. Wem, the "obscure village" mentioned later in 
the essay. 

1, 3. dreaded, name of Demogorgon. Paradise Lost, II, 964-965. 

1, 19. proud Salopians. Compare Coriolanus, v, 6, 115-116. A 
Salopian is an inhabitant of Salop, or Shropshire. 

1, 23. Higli-born Hoel's harp. Gray, The Bard, 1, 28. 

2, 5. With Styx. Pope, Ode on St. Cecilia's Day, 90-91. 

2, 13. I owe to Coleridge. See O^i Reading Old Books, p. 29. 

2, 17. Whitchurch. A town about nine miles north of Wem. 

2, 21-24. like the fires in the Agamemnon of .ffilschylus. Lines 
281-317 describe how the fire-beacons sent the news of Troy's fall 
from Mount Ida to Argos. 

2, 36. II ^ a des impressions. From Rousseau's Confessions. When 
he read this book he was living "the happiest years of our life. . . . 
There were indeed impressions which neither time nor circumstances 
can efface." — On the Character of Rousseau, in The Round Table. 

3, 4. his text. St. John, ^d, 15. 

3, 6. rose like a steam. Comus, 556. 

3, 12. One crying. ,S/. Matthew, iii, 3-4. 

3, 24-25. as though he should never he old. Sidney, Arcadia, Bk. I. 

3, 31. Such were the notes. Pope, Epistle to the Earl of Oxford, 1. 

4, 6. Jus Divinum. Divine Law. 

4, 7. Like to that sanguine flower. Lycidas, 106. 
4, '20. As are the children. Thomson, Castle of Indolence, II, 
xxiii, "Bright as the children of yon azure sheen." 
4, 23-24. A certain tender bloom. Ibidem, I, vii. 

4, 26. Murillo and Valesquez. Great Spanish painters, whose 
dates are 1618-1682 and 1599-1660, respectively. 

6, 1. somewhat fat and pursy. Hamlet, iii, 4, 153. 

5, 13. Adam Smith. The celebrated author of The Wealth of 
Nations, and founder of the science of political economy (1723-1790). 

6, 19. judgment to come. Cf. Acts, xxiv, 25. 

267 



268 NOTES 

7, 1. Mary Wolstonecraft (1759-1797), the wife of William God- 
win and the mother of Shelley's second wife. She is the author of a 
pioneer work on woman's rights, Vindication of the Rights of Women, 
1792. 

7, 2. Mackintosh, Sir James (1765-1832), the author of one of the 
many answers to Burke's Reflections on the Revolution in France (1790), 
VindicioB Gallicce, 1791. 

7, 20. Wedgwood (1771-1805), son of Josiah Wedgwood, the 
famous potter. 

7, 23. Godwin. William Godwin (1756-1836), the author of the 
Enquiry Concerning Political Justice, 1793. The contemporary im- 
portance of the man and his books is presented by Hazlitt in The 
Spirit of the Age. 

8, 3. Holcroft. Thomas Holcroft (1745-1809), an actor, drama- 
tist, and novelist who enjoys a nebulous immortality in his play. The 
Road to Ruin. Hazlitt edited his diaries, under the title The Memoirs 
of Holcroft, 1816. 

8, 21. Deva. The Latin form of Dee, the Welsh- river famed in 
song. 

8, 25. Hill of Parnassus. That is, he would be enabled to devote 
himself to poetry. Parnassus was the Greek mount of poetry and 
inspiration. 

8, 25-26. Delectahle Mountains. In The Pilgrim's Progress. 

9, 11. sounding. Hazlitt mistakes Chaucer here. The scholar is 
represented not as "sounding on his way," but as "sowning in moral 
vertu." "Sowning" means not "sounding in," but "tending to," or 
"inclining toward." Perhaps Hazlitt has confused Chaucer and 
Wordsworth, Excursion III, 71: "Went sounding on, a dim and 
perilous way." 

9, 23. Hume. David Hume (1711-1776), whose most famous 
work is the Treatise on Human Nature, 1739-1740. 

9, 21. South. Robert South (1634-1716), a celebrated English 
divine, whose Sermons are a part of English prose. 

9, 21-22. Credat Judaeus Apella. Horace, Satires, I, 5, 100, "Let 
the Jew Apella believe it!" 

9, 30. Berkeley. George Berkeley (1685-1753). His Essay on 
Vision was published in 1709; the Theory of Matter and Spirit in 1733. 

9, 34-35. " Thus I confute him." Boswell's Life of Johnson, under 
the year 1763: "I never shall forget the alacrity with which Johnson 
answered — striking his foot with mighty force against a large stone 
till he rebounded from it — 'I refute it thus.'" 

9,37. Tom Paine (1737-1809), author of The Rights of Man. 
(1791-1792), one of the many replies to Burke's Reflections on the 
French Revolution. 

10, 4. Bishop Butler. Joseph Butler (1692-1752), an English 
divine and philosopher, author of the celebrated Analogy of Religion^ 
1736. The Sermons were published in 1726. 



MY FIRST ACQUAINTANCE WITH POETS 269 

10, 16. Natural Disinterestedness. This treatise was Hazlitt's first 
original publication, 1805, and developed the characteristic Revo- 
lutionary thesis of the inherent excellence of the natural man. 

11, 3. Paley. William Paley (1743-1805), a once popular phil- 
osopher and theologian. The Moral and Political Philosophy was 
published in 1785. 

11,10-11. " Kind and affable." See Paradise Los^ VIII, 648-650. 

11, 21. He lias somewhere told himself. In Biographia Literaria, 
Chapter x. 

11, 28. Vision of Judgment. The Vision of Judgment, by Southey, 
a panegyric of George III, called forth the "other" Vision of Judg- 
ment by Byron, which was published in Leigh Hunt's Liberal, 1822. 

11, 30. Bridge-Street Junto. The Tory Quarterly Review was 
published by Murray in Bridge Street, London. 

12, 13-14. Ode on the Departing Year. Written in 1796. 

12, 21. Tom Jones. Fielding's Toiu Jones, Book X, Chapter v. 

12, 24. 'Paul and Virginia. By Bernardin de Sainte-Pierre, 1788. 

13, 9. Camilla. By Fanny Burney, 1796. 

13, 22. free use. A mistake. Wordsworth paid £23 a year for 
the place. Mrs. Sandford, Tom Poole and his Friends, I, 225. 
Hazlitt may have confused Alfoxden with Racedown, the previous 
home of Wordsworth, which he had occupied rent-free. 

13, 26. ''Scales that fence." The source of this quotation has 
never been identified. 

13, 29. Lyrical ^allads. Published in September, 1798, soon after 
Hazlitt's visit. None of Wordsworth's poems existed in scattered 
publications, i.e., in the form of Sybilline Leaves. Hazlitt here has 
reference to Coleridge's use of the term to describe the widely scattered 
nature of his publication of 1817 — the Syhilline Leaves. 

13, 37. " hear the loud stag speak." The source of this quotation 
has never been identified. 

14, 19-23. Betty Fay, The Mad Mother, Complaint of a "Poor Indian 
Woman. Poems by Wordsworth published in the Lyrical Ballads. 

14, 25. " In spite of pride." Pope, Essay on Man, I, 293. 
14, 30. "While yet the trembling year." James Thomson, Spring, 
18. 

14, 34. Of Providence. Paradise Lost, ii, 559-560. 

15, 19. Peter Bell. The hero of Wordsworth's poem by that name, 
which was published in 1819. 

16, 26. Chantry's bust. Sir Francis Chantry (1781-1842) exe- 
cuted a bust of Wordsworth in 1821. 

15, 27. Haydon. Benjamin Robert Haydon (1786-1846) intro- 
duced a portrait of Wordsworth into his painting of Christ's Entrance 
into Jerusalem. 

15, 38. Castle Spectre. Mathew Gregory Lewis (1775-1818) was 
called " Monk" because of his romance, The Monk, 1795. The Castle 
Spectre, a dramatic romance, was produced in 1797. 



270 NOTES 

16, 2. ad caplandum merit, the power of capturing public applause. 
16, 15. " his face was as a book." Macbeth, i, 5, 63. 

16, 37. Tom Poole (1765-1837). A good friend of Coleridge, 
Wordsworth, and other literary men. He was a wealthy tanner. 

17, 6. •* followed in the chase." Othello, ii, 3, 369-370. 

17, 20. Sir Walter Scott's. This fling at the Tory proclivities of 
Scott may refer to a banquet given to George IV, by the Magistrates 
of Edinburgh, August 24, 1822 (Waller and Glover). 

17, 27. Poussin's or Domenichino's. Gaspar Poussin (1613-1675) 
changed his name from Dughet to Poussin out of regard for his 
brother-in-law, Nicolas Poussin. Domenico Zampieri (1581-1641) 
was a painter of Bologna. 

18, 21. prose tale. The Wanderings of Cain. 

18, 22. Death of Jlbel. By the Swiss idyllic poet, Solomon Gessner 
(1730-1788), published in 1758. 

18, 29 ff. He said the Lyrical Ballads . . . Henry II. Hazlitt's 
version of the aim of Wordsworth and Coleridge to adopt a diction 
that would be the "neutral style," neither ancient nor modern, but 
essential English. Hazlitt's own prose is deeply influenced by just 
Buch an aim. 

Coleridge's statement is found in his criticisms of Wordsworth, 
especially in Chapters xviii-xx of the Biographia Literaria. 
There is nothing in these chapters which carries the beginning of the 
English "neutral style" beyond Chaucer. 

19, 20. Caleb IVdliams. A famous novel by William Godwin, 
published in 1794. 

19, footnote. BufEamalco or Buffalmacco (1262-1351), a Floren- 
tine painter. The jester in Boccaccio's Decameron. 

19,24. "ribbed sea-sands." Ancient Mariner, 226-227. These 
two lines are by Wordsworth. 

19, 29 ff. This conversation, and others like it, doubtless gave 
Wordsworth the impression that Hazlitt "was somewhat unreasonably 
attached to modern books of moral philosophy," and led him to write 
Expostulation and Reply and The Tables Turned, calling attention to 
the importance of first-hand experiences. See Wordsworth's Ad- 
vertisement to the Lyrical Ballads, 1798. 

20, 27. Remorse. Produced at Drury Lane Theatre, January 23, 
1813. It was a re-writing of Osorio, which was finished in 1797. 

20, 29. Elliston. Robert WiUiam EUiston (1774-1831), an ad- 
mired actor of the period. 

21, 8-9. "But there is matter . . . tale." Wordsworth, Heart- 
Leap Well, 95-96. 

On Reading Old Books 

Reprinted in Table Talk, 1821-1822, from The London Magazine, 
February, 1821. 

22, 4-5. Tales of My Landlord. A series of Scott's novels, in- 
cluding Old Mortality, Rob Roy, and The Bride of Lammermoor. 



ON READING OLD BOOKS 271 

22, 7. Lady Morgan (1783?-1859), a writer of Irish stories, the 
best known of which is The Wild Irish Girl, 1806. 

22, 8. Anastasius; or Memoirs of a Greek, written at the Close of 
the Eighteenth Century, 1819, by Thomas Hope (17707-1831) . The 
book enjoyed considerable popularity. 

22, 11. Ddphine. A novel by Madame de Stael, 1802. 

22, 13. "in their newest gloss." Macbeth, i, 7, 34. 

22, 18. Andrew Millar (1707-1768), famous as the publisher of 
Fielding, Thomson, and other well-known authors. 

22, 20. Thurloe's State Papers. John Thurloe (1616-1668) pub- 
lished a collection of the State Papers of the Protectorate, 7 vols, folio, 
1742. 

22, 21. Sir William Temple (1628-1699), author of Essays, pub- 
lished in 1680 and 1692. Dr. Johnson says he was the first writer to 
give cadence to English prose. 

22, 22. Sir Godfrey Kneller (1646-1723), a famous portrait painter. 

23, 19. rifaccimentos, recasts of old works. 

24, 3. " for thoughts and for remembrance." Hamlet, iv, 5, 175- 
177. 

24, 4. Fortunatus's wishing-cap. Fortunatus is the hero of a 
widely diffused popular tale. 

24, 8. Bruscambille. See Sterne, Tristram Shandy, III, xxxv. 

24, 9. Peregrine Pickle. A novel by Tobias Smollett (1721-1771), 
published in 1751. 

24, 10-11. Memoirs of Lady Vane, in Peregrine Pickle. 

24, 11-14. masquerade, in Tom Jones, XIII, ^di; Thwackum and 
Square, III, iii; Molly Seagrim, IV, viii; Sophia and her muff, 
V, iv; her aunt's lecture, VII, iii. 

24, 21. *' the puppets dallying." Hamlet, iii, 2, 257. 

24, 30. Christian's burthen. In The Pilgrim's Progress. 

24, 32. *' ignorance was bliss." Cf. Gray, Ode on a Distant Pros- 
pect of Eton College. 

25, 8. Ballantyne. James Ballantyne, a publisher who is famous 
for his relations with Scott. 

25, 9. Minerva press. A publishing house which issued highly- 
colored tales. 

25, 12. butter and honey. Cf. Isaiah, vii, 15. 

25, 16. Cooke's pocket-edition. John Cooke (1731-1820) pub- 
lished a Select Edition of British Novels, 1792, in weekly parts. 

25, 18-19. Mrs. Radcliffe's Romance of the Forest. Published in 
1791. 

25, 20. " sweet in the mouth." Revelation, x, 9. 

25, 22. " gay creatures." Milton, Comus, 299-301. 

25, 32. discovers Square. V, v. 

25, 33-34. Parson Adams . . . Mrs. Slip-slop. IV, xiv. 

25, 35. Joseph Andrews. Fielding's first novel, 1742. Fanny is 
the heroine. 



272 NOTES 

26,1. like . ProbaVjly Sarah Walker of the Li6er Amom. 

26, 5. Major Bath. In Fielding's Joseph Andrews. Commodore 
Trunnion. In Smollett's Peregrine Pickle. 

26, 5-6. Trim and my Uncle Toby, in Sterne's Tristram Shandy. 

26, 6. Don Quixote and Sancho and Dapple. Sancho and Dapple 
are Don Quixote's squire and his steed in Don Quixote. 

26, 7. Gil Bias and Dame Lorenza Sephora. Gil Bias is a satirical 
novel (1715) by Le Sage. Gil Bias is the main character in the story 
and Dame Lorenza is one of the principal female characters. 

26, 7. Laura. An actress, mistress, and patroness of Gil Bias. 
See Gil Bias, Book III, Chapters 5, 7, 10, 11, 12; Book IV, Chapter 
1; Book VII, Chapters 6-11; and Book XII, Chapters 1-3. 

26, 8. Lucretia. In Joseph Andrews. 

26, 16. "0 Memory!" The source of this quotation has not 
bGGIl trRCGcl. 

26,21-22. ChviWs Tracts. By Thomas Chubb (1697-1747), a deist. 

26, 30-31. "fate, free-will." Milton, Paradise Lost, II, 560. 

26, 35-36. " Would I had never seen Wittenberg." Marlowe, Dr. 
Faustus, Scene xiv. 

26, 37. Hartley, Hume, Berkeley. David Hartley (1705-1757), 
author of Observations on Man, 1749; David Hume (1711-1776); 
George Berkeley (1685-1751). 

Locke's Essay on the Human Understanding, 1690. 

27, 2. Hobbes. Thomas Hobbes (1588-1679). His most famous 
book is Leviathan, 1651. 

27, 8. New Eloise. By Rousseau, published in 1761. 

27, 9-10. St. Preux. New Eloise, Part VI, Letters IX-XI. 

27, 19-20. Social Contract. Rousseau published this work in 1762, 
and The Confessions in 1778. 

27, 22. I have spoken elsewhere. In his essay on Rousseau in 
The Round Table. 

27, 25. "scattered like stray gifts." Wordsworth, Stray Pleas- 
ures, 27-28. 

27, 26. Emilius. By Rousseau, published in 1762. 

27, 30. Sir Fopling Flutter. In Sir George Etherege's The Man 
of Mode, 1676. 

28, 9-10. leurre de dupe. A phrase from Rousseau's Confessions, 
IV, meaning "a lure for a 'gull.'" 

28, 12-13. •' a load to sink a navy." Henry VIII, iii, 2, 383. 
28, 33. Marcian Colonna. Lamb, Sonnet to . . . Barry Cornwall. 
28, 36. "Come like shadows." Macbeth, iv, 1, iii. 

28, 37. " tiger-moth's wings." Keats, Eve of St. Agnes, 214. 

29, 3-4. " blood of queens and kings." Ibidem, 217. 
29, 9. "Words, words, words." Hamlet, ii, 2, 194-197. 
29, 13-14. fairy tale. Perrault, The Fairies. 

29, 14. great preacher. Edward Irving (1792-1834), a friend of 
Thomas Carlyle and his wife. 



ON READING OLD BOOKS 273 

29, 18. " as the hart that panteth." Cf. Psalm xlii, 1. 

29, 20. Goethe's Sorrows of Werter . . . Schiller's Robbers. One 
of many references to the great reputation of these examples of "Ger- 
man sentiment." Werter was pubHshed in 1774, The Robbers in 1781. 

29, 21. Giving my stock. Cf. As You Like It, ii, 1, 48-49. 

29, 22-23. Coleridge's fine sonnet. Printed in 1796, and probably 
written as early as 1794. 

29, 28-30. I believe I may date, etc. Fully expressed in My First 
Acquaintayice with Poets. 

29, 34. Valentine, Tattle, Miss Prue. Characters in Congreve's 
Love for Love, 1695. 

30, 3. •' know my cue." Cf. Othello, I, ii, 84-85. 

30, 4. Intus et in cute, i.e., "intimately and in the skin." Persius, 
Satires, III, 30. 

30, 9-10. Sir Humphrey Davy (1778-1829), a celebrated English 
scientist, inventor of the safety lamp. 

30, 27. the divine Clementina. In Richardson's Sir Charles 
Grandison, 1753. 

30, 28. "with every trick and line." AlVs Well that Ends Well, 
i, 1, 106-107. 

30, 30. Mackenzie's Julia de Roubigne. Henry Mackenzie (1745- 
1831) published this story in 1777. The Man of Feeling was published 
in 1771, and is noted for its sentimentality and profusion of tears. 

30, 31. peace of Amiens. March, 1802. 

30, 35. Richardson's Romance. Clarissa Harlowe. 

31, 5. Miss . Probably Sarah Walker of the Liber Amoris. 

31, 5-6. ** that ligament, fine as it was." Sterne, Tristram Shandy, 

VI, X (The Story of Le Fever). 

31, 11. story of the hawk. Commonly called "The Story of the 
Falcon" (Deca?neron, Day V, Novel IX). This admired story is used 
by Tennyson in his play. The Falcon. 

31, 16. Recruiting Officer. This drama was written in 1706, 

31, 16-17. " at one proud swoop." Cf. Macbeth, iv. 3, 219. 

31,21-22. That time is past "with all its giddy raptures." 
Wordsworth, Lines Comjjosed a Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey, 84-86. 

31, 23. " embalmed with odours." Paradise Lost, II, 843. 

31, 33. "His form." Paradise Lost, I, 591. 

31, 37-38. "falls flat upon the grunsel edge." Paradise Lost, I, 
46a. 

32, 2-12. Note this passage of noble praise. Hazlitt discrimi- 
nates between Burke's style, which he admires, and his doctrines, 
which he detests. 

32, 14. Junius's. Sir Philip Francis, the author of Letters of 
Junius. 

32, 21. eagle in a dove-cot. Coriolanus, v, 6, 115. 

32, 32. Essa^ on Marriage. No such essay by Wordsworth is 
known. The conjecture of Waller and Glover (in which they are 



274 NOTES 

followed by Howe) that Hazlitt may mean the Letter to the Bishop 
of Llandoff, written in 1793, as it was "the only notable prose work 
which Wordsworth had published " in 1798, is unfounded, as the 
Letter was never published in Wordsworth's lifetime, and was known 
to very few. 

33, 5-11. Note this account by Hazlitt of his own early difficulties 
in the art of writing. 

33, 18-19. "worthy of all acceptation." I Timothy, i, 15. 

33, 27-28. Clarendon's History of the Rebellion. Pubhshed in 
1704-1707. 

33, 34-35. Froissart's Chronicles. Jean Froissart (1338-1410?), 
Chronicles of France, England, Scotland, and Spain, 1367-1400. Ralph 
Holinshed, Chronicles of England, Scotland, and Ireland, 1377. John 
Stow (1525?-1605), English Chronicles, 1561. Thomas Fuller (1608- 
1661), The History of the Worthies of England, 1662. 

33, 37-38. A Wijte for a Month, 1623. 

33, 38. Thierry and Theodoret, 1621. 

34, 2. Thucydides. The great Greek historian (b.c. 471-401). 
Guicciardini. Francesco Guicciardini (1483-1540), a well-known 

Italian historian. 

34, 3-4. Don Quixote, 1605, Loves of Persiles and Sigismunda, 1617, 
and Galatea, 1583, are works by Cervantes, the great Spanish novelist. 

34,6. " another Yarrow." Woidswonh, Yarrow Unvisited. 



Whether Genius is Conscious of its Powers 

35, 7. Bolingbroke. Henry St. John, Viscount Bolingbroke (1672- 
1751), to whom Pope addressed his Essay on Man. 
Sir William Temple. See note on 22, 21. 
35, 13. " sees not itself." Cf. Julius Coesar, i, 2, 52-53. 

35, 32. " a phoenix gazed by all." Paradise Lost, V, 272. 

36, 32-33. Materiam superahat opus. Ovid, Metamorphoses, II, 5, 
"the workmanship was more beautiful than the material." 

37, 3-4. Correggio (1494-1534), a famous painter of the Lombard 
school; Michael Angelo (1475-1564), famous as sculptor, painter, and 
poet; Rembrandt (1607-1669), the leading Dutch painter. 

37, 9. " Our poesy is as a gum." Timon of Athens, i, 1, 21-25. 

37, 18. Hogarth, William (1697-1764), a celebrated English painter 
and engraver; known especially for his comic and satiric pictures. 

37, 24. Vandyke (1590-1641), the great Flemish portrait painter. 

37, 36. invita Minerva. Horace, De Arte Poetica, 385, "against the 
bent of genius, or nature." 

39, 1-2. " the glory, the intuition, the amenity." Charles Lamb, 
Lines on "the Virgin of the Rocks.^' 

39, 13-14. darkness visible. Paradise Lost, I, 62. darkness that 
could only be felt. Exodus, x, 21. 



WHETHER GENIUS IS CONSCIOUS OF ITS POWERS 275 

39, 37. " through happiness or pains." Pope, Epistle to Mr. Jer- 
vas, 68. 

40, 28-29. "And visions . . . bough." This couplet, a favorite 
quotation of Hazlitt's, occurs in a letter from Gray to Walpole. 
(Gray's Letters, edited by Jovey, Volume I, 7-8.) The lines are 
apparently a translation (by Gray) of Virgil, ^neid, VI, 282-284 
(Waller and Glover). 

40, 33. "My mind to me a kingdom is." Sir Edward Dyer, in 
Byrd's Psalms and Sonnets, 1588. 

41, 4. MiUimant. The leading woman character in Congreve'a 
The Way of the World, 1700. Hazlitt refers to his Lectures on the 
English Comic Writers, 1819. 

41, 9. Friscobaldo. In Thomas Dekker, The Honest Whore, 
Part II. This description is to be found in Hazlitt's Lectures on the 
Dramatic Literature of the Age of Elizabeth, 1820. 

41, 10. G . fE . . d. Wmiam Gifford (1757-1826) is the subject of 
a separate publication by Hazlitt, A Letter to William Gifford, Esq., 
1819, in which he is very severely handled. 

41, 23. Webster or Dekker. John Webster (1602-1624), Thomas 
Dekker (1570?-1637?). These men are dealt with in Lectures on the 
Dramatic Literature of the Age of Elizabeth, 1820. 

41, 25-26. Characters of Shakespeare's 'Plax^s, 1817. 

41, 27. Anti- Jacobin and Anti-Gallican writers. Those who were 
opposed to the Revolutionary doctrines. 

41, 31. 'Descent of Liberty. A masque by Leigh Hunt (1784-1859), 
published in 1815. 

41, 33. sat by the waters of Babylon. Psalm cxxxvii, 1-2. 

41, 35. the cause of kings or of mankind. This sentence is a terse 
summary of Hazlitt's consistent belief. His admiration for Napoleon 
was based on the belief that Napoleon was against the kings. 

41, 37. the Mighty. Napoleon. 

42, 9. Beast. Cf. Revelation, xiii, 4. 

42, 16. image and superscription. Of. St. Matthew, xxii, 20; St. 
Mark, xii, 16; St. Luke, xx, 24. 

42,22-23. "Cried out upon in the top of the compass." Of. 
Hamlet, iii, 2, 381-383, and ii, 2, 355. 

42, 29. Characteristics. Mr. Jerdan reviewed Hazlitt's Character- 
istics (published anonymously in 1823) very favorably in the 
Literary Gazette for July 12, 1823. 

43, 5-6. praised in the Examiner, i.e., in Leigh Hunt's publication. 
43, 9. Story of Rimini. Published in 1816. 

43. 10-11. •' an Adonis of fifty." Words applied by Leigh Hunt 
to the Prince Regent, for which he and John Hunt were sent to prison. 

43, 12-13. ''Return, Alphseus . . . Muse!" Milton, Lycidas, 
132-133. 

43,25-26. '«look abroad into universality." Bacon, Advance- 
ment of Learning, Book I. 



276 NOTES 

44, 10. A. P. E. Alexander Pope, Esquire. 

44, 31. **They take in vain." Exodus, xx, 7. 

45, 1. " It is all one as we should love." AlVs Well that Ends 
Well, i, 1, 96-98. 

45, 3. ** fast anchored." Cf. Cowper, Retirement, 84. 

45, 11. '* the face of heaven so bright." Cf. Romeo and Juliet, ii, 
2, 20-22. 

45, 15. Bartlemy Fair. A famous fair held at West Smithfield, 
London, 1133-1850, about St. Bartholomew's Day, August 24. 

45, 21. "The high endeavour." Cf. Cowper, The Task, V, 903. 

46, 13-14. his repetita crambe. Cf. Juvenal, Satires, vii, 154, 
"twice chewed cabbage." 

46, 26. " Titianus faciebat." That is, "Titian was engaged in 
making [this picture]." 

46, 29-30. Annibal Caracci. 1560-1609. 

47, 27. Love for Love. A comedy by Congreve, 1695. 

A Farewell to Essay- Writing 

Written February 20, 1828, at Winterslow. Published in the 
London Weekly Review for March 29, 1828. Printed in Winterslow 
Essays, 1850. 

48, 1. " This life is best." Cymheline, iii, 3, 29-30. 

48, 3. ultima ihule, "farthest north, i.e., 'most remote' parts of the 
world." 

48, 5. " a friend in your retreat." Cowper, Retirement, 741-742. 

48, 14. *' done its spiriting gently." The Tempest, i, 2, 299. 

48, 15. startle the ear of winter. Cf. Milton, U Allegro, 42, "And 
singing startle the dull Night." 

48, 23. '* credulous hope." Cf. Milton, Paradise Regained, II, 
166, "credulous desire"; and Wordsworth, To the Clouds, 88-89, 
"credulous desire nourish the hope." 

48,27-28. " the spring conies slowly." Coleridge, C/iristo6eZ, 12. 

48, 28-29. ** fields are dank and ways are mire." Milton, Sonnet, 
"Laurence, of virtuous father virtuous son." 

49, 13. " left its little life in air." Pope, Windsor Forest, 134. 
49, 24. " peep through the blanket of the past." Macbeth, -i, 5, 51. 

49, 32. Louvre. The great Paris gallery of painting and sculpture, 
where Hazlitt studied painting. 

50, 6. "open all the cells." Cowper, The Task, VI, 11-12. 

50, 14. Theodore and Honoria. Dryden's retelling of a story from 
Boccaccio. The scene referred to is in lines 102-124. 

50,18-19. " Of all the cities . . . stands." Theodore and Honoria, 
1-2. 

50, 28-29, " Which when Honoria viewed . . . renew'd." Lines 
342-343. 



ON CLASSICAL EDUCATION 277 

50,31-32. "And made th' insult . . . tears." Dryden, Sigis- 
monda and Guiscardo, 668-669. 

61, 8. con amore. Italian, "with pleasure." 

51, 10-11. ''Let honour and preferment . . . sold." Dryden, 
Epilogue to Mithridates, King of Pontus, 16-17 (1678). 

51,23-24. ** Fall' n was Glenartny's Stately tree . . , more." Sir 
Walter Scott, Glenfinlas, final stanza. 

52, 29-30. " admired of all observers." Cf. Hamlet, iii, 1, 162. 

63, 34. "I know not seems." Hamlet, i, 2, 76. 
63,35. "Companion." Leigh Hunt. 

54, 2. Aut Caesar out nullus. "Either Csesar or no one." 

64, 17. L . Charles Lamb. 

54, 28. Antonio. The play was produced at Drury Lane Theatre, 
December 13, 1800, and "faUed of success" most signally. 

66, 4. " Nor can I think." Dryden, The Hind and the Panther, I, 
315. 

66, 16-17. Chaucer's Flower and Leaf. This poem is now known 
not to be Chaucer's. The author is unknown. 

66, 22. " And ayen . . . ear." Flower and Leaf, Stanza 15. 

56, 27. Miss L — . Mary Lamb. 

66, 28. Claude Lorraine (1600-1682). A celebrated French land- 
scape painter, much admired by Hazlitt. 

66, 1. Wilson. Richard Wilson (1714-1782), a noted English 
landscape painter. 

56, 5. hashed mutton. See Fielding, Amelia, Book X, Chapter v, 
in which Amelia eats the hashed mutton which she had prepared for 
her extravagant husband. 

56,26. "And curtain close . . . view." Collins, Ode on the 
Poetical Character, 76. 



On Classical Education 

This essay was first published in The Examiner for February 12, 
1815, where it formed the greater part of No. 7 of the Round Table 
series. The germ of the essay was published in The Morning Chronicle 
for September 25, 1813, as a part of one of Hazlitt's Common Places, 
and. consisted of the first three paragraphs. It was republished in 
revised form in The Round Table, 1817. 

57, 2. "a discipline of humanity." Sir Francis Bacon, Essays, 
Of Marriage and Single Life. 

57, 16. set on a hill. St. Matthew, v, 14. 

67, 19-26. " Still green with hays . . , flow." Pope, Essay on 
Criticism, 181-188. 

57, 31-32. Conversing with the mighty dead. Cf. Thomson, 
Winter, 431, "And hold high converse with the mighty dead." 



278 NOTES 

68, 30. A celebrated political writer. No doubt "William Cobbett 
(1762-1835). 

69, 1. "The world is too much with us." Freely quoted from 
Wordsworth's Sonnet. 

69, 38. Falstaff's reasoning. 1 Henry /F, v, 1, 138-143. 
60, 6. " They that are whole." St. Matthew, ix, 12. 



On the Ignorance of the Learned 

This essay was first published in the Scots' Magazine, July, 1818. 
It was reprinted in Table Talk, 1821-1822. 

61, 1-12. "For the more languages . . . own." Samuel Butler 
(1612-1680), Satire iipon the Abuse of Human Learning, 57-68. 

61,30. "spectacles." Speaking of Shakespeare, Dryden says, 
"He needed not the spectacles of books to read Nature." Essay of 
Dramatic Poesy. 

62, 10. "Leave me to my repose." Gray, The Descent of Odin. 
"Leave me, leave me to repose" is the refrain of the poem. It was 
doubtless given currency by Burke, who quoted it in his Letter to a 
Noble Lord, 1795. 

62, 15. " take up his hed and walk." St. Matthew, ix, 6. 

62, 21. " enfeebles all internal strength." Goldsmith, The Travel- 
ler, 270. 

62, 32. " sweats in the eye of Phoebus." Henry V, iv, 1, 290-291. 

64, 12. "Th' enthusiast Fancy." Cf. Charles Lamb, Fancy Em- 
ployed on Divine Subjects, 1-2: 

"The truant Fancy was a wanderer ever, 
A lone enthusiast maid." 

64, 22-23. least respectable character. George Canning. 

65, 23. A person of this class. Dr. Charles Burney (1757-1827), 
author of Remarks on the Greek Verses of Milton, 1790. 

65, 26-27. Dr. . Dr. Burney and Dr. Samuel Parr. 

66, 27. Person. Richard Porson (1759-1808), a famous Greek 
scholar, professor at the University of Cambridge. 

66, 7. "The mighty world of eye and ear," Wordsworth, Lines 
Composed a Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey, 105-106. 

66, 8. "knowledge quite shut out." Paradise Lost, III, 50. 

66,12-16. "Of the colouring of Titian." Sterne, Tristram Shandy, 
III, 12. 

66, 35. " knows no touch of it." Hamlet, iii, 2, 371. 

67, 6-7. " the act and practique part of life." Henry F, i, 1, 51-52. 

67, 9-11. "has no skill in surgery." l Henry IV, v, 1, 134. 

68, 4. Anas. Miscellaneous collections of information about 
persons or things. 



THE INDIAN JUGGLERS 279 

68, 28. Baxter. Richard Baxter (1615-1691), author of The 
Saints' Everlasting Rest, 1650. 

69,5-6. "wink and shut their apprehensions up." Marston, 
Antonio's Revenge, Prologue. 

69, 21-25. Laud, William (1573-1645) ; Whitgift, John (1530?- 
1604), both Archbishops of Canterbury; Bull, George (1634-1740) 
Waterland, Daniel (1683-1740); Prideaux, Humphrey (1648-1724) 
Beausobre, Isaac de (1659-1738); Cahnet, Augustine (1672-1757) 
Puffendorf, Samuel, Baron von (1632-1694); Vattel, Emeri de 
(1714-1767) ; ScaUger, Joseph J. (1540-1609) ; Cardan, Jerome (1503- 
1576); Scioppius, or Schoppe, Kaspar (1576-1649). 

69, 28-29. "gone to the vault of all the Capulets." Romeo and 
Juliet, iv, 1, 111-112. 



The Indian Jugglers 

This essay first appeared in Table Talk, 1821-1822. The essay 
is in praise of skill, bodily and mental. A good juggler is better than 
a mediocre statesman. 

74, 35. "In argument . . . still." Goldsmith, The Deserted Vil- 
lage, 211-212. 

75, 33. " to allow for the wind." Scott, Ivanhoe, Chapter xiii. 

76, 9. " human face divine." Paradise Lost, III, 44. 

76, 26. H s and H s. W. C. Hazlitt in his edition of 

Table Talk prints the first name as "Haydons." Is the second one 
"Hazlitts"? 

76, 27. "in tones and gestures hit." Cf. Paradise Regained, IV, 
255. 

76,31-32. " commercing with the sMes." Milton, II Penseroso, 39. 

77, 20-21. "And visions as poetic . . . bough." See note on 40, 
28-29. 

77, 30. " Thrills in each nerve." Cf. Addison, Milton's Style Imi- 
tated, 123-124. 

78,11. "halfflying, half on foot." Cf. Paradise Los^ II, 941-942. 

78, 26-27. I know an individual. Leigh Hunt. 

78, 35. Nugae canorae. Horace, De Arte Poetica, 322, "nonsense 
versified." 

78, 36. Rochester, Earl of (1647-1680), a poet and courtier in the 
reign of Charles II. 

78, 37. Surrey, Earl of (1517-1547), who with Sir Thomas Wyatt 
inaugurated the period of Elizabethan literature. 

80, 20-21. Jedediah Buxton (1705-1772), a mathematical prodigy, 
who was unable to obtain an education and so accomplished nothing 
notable. Napier, John (1550-1617), who invented logarithms. 

81, 8. John Hunter (1728-1793), a noted English surgeon, phy- 
siologist, and anatomist. 



280 NOTES 

81, 26-27. "great scholar's memory . , . century." Cf. Hamlet, 
iii, 2, 139-140. 

82, 2. Wolsey. Cardinal Wolsey (1471-1530). 
82, 3. Mendicant Friar. A begging friar. 

82, 7. Moliere, the great French comic dramatist (1622-1673); 
Babelais (1495-1553), o^nthov oi Pantagruel, 1553; Montaigne (1533- 
1592), the great French essayist. 

82, 30-31. " Care mounted behind the horseman." Horace, Odes, 
III, i, 40. 

82.34. "in the instant." Macbeth, \, b, b'd. 

82.35. "domestic treason." Ci. Macbeth, \\\, 2, 25-2Q. 

83, 32. Cobbett, William (1762-1835), a noted English radical 
writer and politician. 

84, 14-15. Rosemary Branch. A well-known tavern at Peckham. 

84, 35. Copenhagen-house. A tavern in the north of London. 

85, 38. The Fleet prison and the King's Bench prison had well- 
known courts for the game of fives. 

86, 4. " Who enters here." Cf. Pope, The Dunciad, IV, 518-519. 
86, 12. the present Speaker. Mr. Charles Manners Sutton was 

elected Speaker of the House on June 2, 1817. 

86, 17-18. " Let no rude hand . . . jacet." Wordsworth, Ellen 
Irwin, 55-56. 

On Going a Journey 

This incomparable essay in praise of walking was first published in 
the New Monthly Magazine, 1822, Volume IV, p. 22. It was reprinted 
in Table Talk, 1821-1822. 

87, 5. " The fields his study . . . book." Robert Bloomfield 
(1766-1823), The Farmer's Boy, Spring, 31. 

87, 12-13. "a friend in my retreat . . . sweet." Cowper, Re- 
tirement, 741-742. 

Vt, 22-24:. "May plume her feathers . . . impair'd." Milton, 
Comus, 378-381. 

87, 27. Tilbury. A gig, or two-wheeled carriage, without a top or 
cover. 

88, 5. "sunken wrack." Henry V, i, 2, 165. 

88, 12-13. "Leave, oh, leave me." Gray, The Descent of Odin, 
refrain. See note on 62, 10. 

88, 26-27. "Out upon such half-faced fellowship." I Henry IV, 
I, iii,' 208. 

89, 37. " give it an understanding." Hamlet, i, 2, 250. 
89^ 38. C . Coleridge. 

90, 3-4. " He talked far above singing." Beaumont and Fletcher, 
Philaster, v, 5. 

90, 4. so clothe. St. Matthew, vi, 30. 

90, 6. swelling theme. Cf. Henry V, Prologue to Act i, sc. 4. 



ON GOING A JOURNEY 281 

90, 8. "that fine madness." Thomas Drayton, Censure of Poets. 
90, 12-29. "Here be woods . . . sweetest." John Fletcher, The 
Faithful Shepherdess, I, iii, 27-43. 

90, 37. L , Charles Lamb. 

91, 8-9. take one's ease at one's inn," 1 Henry IV, iii, 3, 93. 

91, 15. " the cups that cheer." Cf. Cowper, The Task, IV, 39-40. 

91, 19. cow-heel. Don Quixote, II, xlix. 

91, 21. Shandean. Like that shown in Tristram Shandy. 

91, 23. PtocuL Virgil, ^neid, VI, 258, "Away, away, ye ini- 
tiated!" 

92, 5-6. "unhoused free condition." Othello, i, 2, 26. 

92, 7-8. " Lord of one's self." Cf. John Dryden, To my 
Honoured Kinsman, John Driden, 18. 

92, 29-30. St. Neot's. A small town near Peterborough. About 
1796 Hazlitt made a walking tour into the North, and may have seen 
the engravings at that time. 

92, 30-31. Gribelin's engravings of the Cartoons. Made in 1707. 

92, 33. Westall, Richard (1765-1836), a prominent English his- 
torical painter. 

93, 1. Paul and Virginia. See note on 12, 24. 

93, 2. at Bridgewater. When he visited Coleridge and Words- 
worth in 1798. See My First Acquaintance with Poets. 

93, 4. Camilla. Published in 1796. 

93, 5-6. New Eloise . . . St. Preux. Rousseau, La Nouvelle 
Heloise, Part IV, Letter xvii. 

93, 10. ban houche. Properly, bonne bouche, a choice morsel to 
top off with. 

93,16-17. " green upland swells." Cf. Coleridge, Otie to «/ie De- 
parting Year, 125—126. 

93, 19. " glittered green." Ode to the Departing Year, 124. 

93, 28. faded into the light of common day. Wordsworth, Ode 
on the Intimations of Immortality, 76. Cf. also To a Highland Girl, 
16-17. 

93, 30. " The beautiful is vanished, and returns not." Coleridge, 
The Death of Wallenstein, V, i, 68. 

94, 3-7. Yet will I turn, etc. This sentence is an amalgam of 
Wordsworth, Lines Composed a Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey, 
56-58, Revelation, xxi, 6, and xxii, 1-2. 

94, 18. bares its bosom. Cf. Wordsworth, Sonnet, The world is 
too much with us, 5. 

94,26-27. "Beyond Hyde Park," . . . Fopling Flutter. Sir 
George Etherege (1635?-1691), The Man of Mode, V, ii. In the 
text Fopling is misprinted Topling. 

95, 28. " The mind is its own place." Paradise Lost, I, 254. 
95, 33. "With glistering spires." Paradise Lost, III, 550. 

95, 36. Bodleian. The great Library at the University of Oxford. 
Blenheim. The seat of the Duke of Marlborough, near Oxford. 
95, 37. ciceroni, guides. 



282 NOTES 

96, 19-20. When I first set my foot on the laughing shores of 
France. This was in 1802, and so he writes at a distance of twenty 
years. 

96, 26. " vine-covered hills." From William Roscoe, Lines Written 
in 1798. This poem is parodied in Canning and Frere's Anti- 
Jacobin. 

97,3. " jump," risk. Ci. Macbeth, i, 7, 7. 

97, 5. Dr. Johnson. Boswell, Life of Johnson, III, 301 (Hill's ed.). 
97, 14. " Out of my country and myself I go." The source of this 

quotation has not been discovered. 



Why Distant Objects Please 

First published in Table Talk, 1821-1822. 

98, 9. " descry new lands." Paradise Lost, I, 290-291. 

98, 12-13. Ethereal mould, sky-tinctured. A good example of 
Hazlitt's Miltonic echoes. Cf. Paradise Lost, II, 139, and V, 285. 

98, 19-22. " But thou, oh Hope ! " William Collins, The Passions, 
29-32. 

98, 27-28. lord of infinite space. Cf. Hamlet, ii, 2, 261, "king 
of infinite space." An example of Hazlitt's Shakespearean echoes. 

98, 29-30. " When I was a boy." At Wem, in Shropshire, he lived 
within sight of the Welsh hills. 

99, 3. "Yarrow unvisited." A reference to Wordsworth, Yarrow 
Unvisited, which maintains the thesis that it is best "not idly to dis- 
turb a dream of good." 

99, 9. " TJnmould their essence." Cf. "unmoulding reason's mint- 
age" in Milton, Comus, 529. 

99, 17. "a mighty stream of tendency," Wordsworth, The Ex- 
cursion, IX, 87. 

99, 21. " a tide in the affairs of men." Julius Ccesar, iv, 3, 218. 

99, 22-23. "with sails and tackle torn." Cf. Paradise Lost, II, 
1044, "though shrouds and tackle torn." 

100, 2. " Such tricks hath strong imagination." A Midsummer 
Night's Dream, v, 1, 18. 

100, 7. "hangs upon the heatings of our hearts." Cf. Words- 
worth, Lines Composed a Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey, 54. 

100, 10-11. " come thronging soft desires." Cf. Much Ado About 
Nothing, i, 1, 305. 

100,25-26. "bring back the hour." Wordsworth, Ode on the 
Intimations of Immortality, 190-191. 

101,9-10. "that first garden of my innocence." Cf. Samuel 
Daniel, Hymen's Triumph. 

101,14-16. "Like the sweet south . . . odour." Cf. Twelfth 
Night, i, 1, 5-8. 

101, 21. W— -m. Wem, in Shropshire. 



DISADVANTAGES OF INTELLECTUAL SUPERIORITY 283 

101, 24-25. " thing of Ufe." Byron, The Corsair, Canto I, iii. 

101, 30. " Like some gay creature." Milton, Comus, 299. 

101, 33. Leigh Hunt ... in a paper. In his essay, A Nearer 
View of Some of the Shops. 

103, 16. " How silver-sweet." Romeo and Juliet, ii, 2, 166. 

103, 22. "To angels 'twas most like." Cf. The Flower and the 
Leaf, a poem formerly attributed to Chaucer, Stanza 19. 

103, footnote. WUMe' 8 Blind Fiddler. David WUkie (1775-1841), 
a noted Scottish painter. The Blind Fiddler is now in the National 
Gallery. 

104, 5-6. "like an exhalation." Cf. Comus, 556, "Rose like a 
steam of rich distilled perfumes"; and Paradise Lost, I, 711, "Rose 
like an exhalation." This is a good example of the way in which 
Hazlitt blends quotations to his own taste so that they become part 
and parcel of his own expression. 

104, 15. Mr. Fearn's Essay. John Fearn, An Essay on Conscious- 
ness, 2nd edition, 1812. 

107, 33-34. " There's sympathy ! " The Merry Wives of Windsor, 
ii, 1, 7. 

108, 17-18. , the editor of a Scotch magazine. Hazlitt 

refers to James Gibson Lockhart, who was suspected to be the Editor 
of Blackwood's Magazine. 

108,30. "Those faultless monsters." John Sheffield, Duke of 
Buckingham, Essay on Poetry. 

108, 31. "The web of our lives," AWs Well that Ends Well, iv, 3, 
84-87. 



On the Disadvantages of Intellectual Superiority 

This essay was first published in Table Talk, 1821-1822. 

109, 9. Petrarch. In Morte di Laura, Sonnet xxiv. 

109, 16-17. "To be honest . . . thousand." i/amZe^ ii, 2, 177-179. 

110, 1-4. " Stand all astonied . . . fears." Spenser, The Faerie 
Queene, VII, vi, 28. 

110, 24. C . Coleridge. 

113, 7. fate, free-wiU. Cf. Paradise Lost, II, 559-560. 
113, 12. oiium cum dignitale. Cicero, Pro Publio Sextio, xlv, 
"ease with dignity." 

113, 17. " I am nothing if not critical." Othello, ii, 1, 120. 

114, 29-30. in the . Quarterly Review. 

114, 37-38. This is the unkindest cut of all. Cf. Julius Ccesar, iii, 
2, 187. 

115, 8. Prince Maurice's Parrot and an Essay on the Regal Char- 
acter. These papers were published by Hazlitt in The Examiner, 
July 10, 1814, and in The Yellow Dwarf, May 16, 1818, respectively. 



284 NOTES 

115, 10-11. a ^eat personage. Gifford, the editor of the Quarterly 
Review. 

116, 16. L . Charles Lamb. 

116, 17. L. H. Leigh Hunt. 

116, 25. Count Stendhal. Marie-Henri Beyle, a celebrated French 
writer (1783-1842). 

116, 27. S . Probably Shelley. 

116, 28. " germane to the matter." Haralet, v, 2, 165. 

G — dw — n. William Godwin. 

116, 30. Vetus. Contributed to the Morning Chronicle, 1813. 

116, 36. digito monstrari. Cf. Horace, Odes, IV, iii, 22. 

116, 37. Mr. Powell's Court. In St. Martin's Street, London. 

117, 14-15. Mr. Knight's performance of Filch. Edward Knight 
(1774-1826), an actor in the Drury Lane Company. Filch is in 
John Gay's The Beggar^s Opera, 1728. 

117, 15. little Simmons. Samuel Simmons (17777-1819), a mem- 
ber of the Covent Garden Company. 

117, 23. Cavanagh. The great fives player, celebrated in The 
Indian Jugglers. 

118,9-10. "lively, audible, and full of vent." Cf. Coriolanus, 
iv, 5, 237-238. 

118, 27-28. Angelica and Foresight, in Love for Love. By John 
Dryden, II, iii. 

118,36-37. "So shalt thou find me . . . be." Sardanapalus, 
IV, i. 

119, 24. sworn at Highgate. See Brand's Popular Antiquities, 
II, 195. The oath in part is "never to kiss the maid when he could 
kiss the mistress." 

120, 3. "not pierceable by power of any star." Spenser, Faerie 
Queene, I, i, 7. 

120,6. "to succeed at the gaming-table." Cf. John Gay, The 
Beggar's Opera, I, iv. The words are Mr. Peachum's. 

120, 14-16. "to have a good face . . . nature." Cf. Much Ado 
about Nothing, iii, 3, 14-16. 

120, 33. Hobbes, Thomas (1588-1679), the celebrated English phil- 
osopher. His best known book is Leviathan, 1651. 



On the Knowledge of Character 

This essay was first published in Table Talk, 1821-1822. 

121, 23. a celebrated wit. Either Voltaire or Talleyrand. The 
idea has often been expressed. 

121, 26-27. Lord Chesterfield. In Letters to his Son, exxx. 

121, 32. "It is not a year or two shows us a man." Othello, 
iii, 4, 103. 



ON THE KNOWLEDGE OF CHARACTER 285 

122, 3. Charles V (1500-1558), Emperor of the Holy Roman Em- 
pire. 

122, 3-4. Ignatius Loyola (1491-1556), founder of the Society of 

122, 10. Donne, John (1573-1631), an English poet. The rude 
half effaced outline is by W. Marshall, from a painting of Donne at 
the age of 18. 

122, 14. W . Wellington. 

122,33. prima facie. At first view or appearance. 

123, 3. Mr. . Hazlitt? 

123, 31. C 'S. Coleridge's. 

123, 32-33. " Create a soul." Milton, Comus, 562. 

124, 17-18. " The greatest hypocrite." Sarah Walker, heroine 
of Liber A7noris. 

124, 31. I know a person. Hazlitt. 

124, 35. " compliments extern." Othello, i, 1, 63. 

126, 9-10. "If the French have a fault." Sterne, A Sentimental 
Journey, Versailles. 

127, 21. "wild wit." Gray, Ode on A Distant Prospect of Eton 
College, 46. 

128, 28. service is no inheritance. Cf. AlVs Well that Ends Well, i,. 
3, 25-26, "Service is no heritage." 

129, 4-5. "Subtle as the fox . . . eat." Cymheline, iii, 3, 40-41. 

129, 37-38. "bitter bad judges." Gay, The Beggar's Opera, I, iv. 

130, 5-6. I never knew but one clever man. Probably Leigh Hunt. 
130, 25-26. "The way of woman's will . . . hit." Cf. Milton, 

Samson Agonistes, 1011-1013. 

130, 34. Cavalier servente. Literally, "cavalier lover," "handy 
man." 

131, 13. Oh! thou. Sarah Walker. 

131, 17. Imogen. In Cymheline. 

132, 10. sui generis, unique. 

132, 37. " The son." Here Hazlitt is giving his personal experi- 
ence. 

133,5. " Eembrandts." Cf. Goldsmith, Retaliation, 145, "Ra- 
phaels, Correggios, and stuff." 

133, 14. "infinite agitation of men's wit." Bacon, Advancement 
of Learning, I, iv, 5. 

135, 3. " in the trade of war." Othello, i, 2, 1. 
135, 5. " so as with a difference." Hamlet, iv, 5, 83, "You must 
wear your rue with a difference." 

135,9. "pure defecated evil." Burke, Letter to a Nohle Lord. 
135, 12. "whatever is, is right." Pope, Essay on Man, I, 294. 
135, 24-25. " Amen stuck in his throat." Cf. Macbeth, ii, 2, 32-33. 

135, 31. "no malice in the case." Gay, The Beggar's Opera, I, x. 

136, 5-12. Say, I had lay'd a body in the sun. In Osorio, the origi- 
nal form of Remorse, III, 224-231. 



286 NOTES 

137,8-9. "I count myself indifferent honest." Hamlet, iii, 1, 
123-125. 

138, 2. "who knew all qualities." Cf. Othello, iii, 3, 259. 

138, 24. " as much again to govern it." Pope, Essay on Criti- 
cism, 11. 80-81, a reading rejected in th-e quarto of 1743: 

" There are whom Heav'n has blest with store of wit, 
Yet want as much again to manage it." 



On the Fear of Death 

This essay originally appeared in Table Talk, 1821-1822. 

139,1. " And our little life . . . sleep." The Tempest, \v,l,l5&. 

139, 10. Bickerstaff. In The Tatler, 1709-11. The author is 
Richard Steele. 

139, 13. the Globe. A tavern in Fleet Street. 

139, 16. Tristram Shandy. Volumes I and II in 1760; III and IV 
in 1761; V and VI in 1762; VII and VIII in 1765; IX in 1767. 

139, 26-27. " the gorge rises at." Hamlet, v, 1, 206. 

140, 2. per Jus, lost. 

140, 9-11. "Ye armed men . . . Temple church." The Temple 
Church, London, contains tombs of the Knights Templars. 

140,34-35. " The wars we well remember . . . divine." Spenser, 
Faerie Queene, II, ix, 56. 

141, 28. "The present eye." Troilus and Cressida, iii, 3, 180. 
141, 33-34. " makes calamity of so long life." Hamlet, iii, 1, 69. 

141, 35-37. "Oh! thou strong heart!" John Webster, The White 
Devil, V, iii, 96. 

142, 2-3. " Content man's natural desire." Pope, Essay on Man, 
I, 109. 

142, 4-5. "on this bank and shoal of time." Macbeth, i, 7, 6. 

142, 23. No young man ever thinks he shall die. This is the open- 
ing sentence of On the Feeling of Immortality in Youth, and is there 
attributed to Hazlitt's brother John. 

142, 24-25. " all men are mortal." A reference to the stock ex- 
ample of the logical syllogism: "All men are mortal; Socrates is a 
man; therefore Socrates is mortal." 

142, 31-32. " This sensible warm motion . . . clod," Measure 
for Measure, iii, 1, 120. 

142, 33-34. "turn to withered, weak, and grey." Paradise Lost, 
XI, 540. 

142, 37. All men . . . themselves. Edward Young, Night Thoughts, 
I, 424. 

143, 11. " the sear, the yellow leaf." Macbeth, v, 3, 23. 

143*, 17. "gone into the wastes of time." Cf. Shakespeare, Son- 
net xii, 10. 



ON THE SPIRIT OF OBLIGATIONS 287 

143, 23. As the tree falls. Cf. Ecclesiastes, xi, 3, "In the^place 
where the tree falleth, there it shall be." 

143, 37. Don Carlos. Hazlitt refers to the death of the Marquis 
in Act V. 

144, 26. Zanetto . . . matematica. Rousseau, Confessions, Part 
II, Book 7, "Zanetto, leave women and study mathematics." 

144, 35. I have never seen death but once. He probably refers to 
the death of his son WilUam at the age of less than six months. 

145, 9. "like Chantrys monument." The famous "Sleeping 
Children," in Lichfield Cathedral, by Francis Legatt Chantry (1781- 
1842), a noted English sculptor. 

145, 26-27. "Still from the tomb ... fires." Gray, Elegy in a 
Country Churchyard, 91-92. 

145, 28-29. Tucker's Light of Nature Pursued. By Abraham 
Tucker (1705-1774). Hazlitt abridged the work in 1807. 

147,10-12. "AUttlerule . . . grave." John Dyer (1700-1758), 
Grongar Hill (1727). 

147, 14-15. "A great man's memory . . . year." Hamlet, iii, 2, 
139-140. 

148, 6. ad infinitum. To infinity. 

148,10. "at a pin's fee." Ct Handet, i, 4, Q5. 

148, 17-18. "seasick, weary bark."- Romeo and Juliet, v, 3, 118. 

148, 30-31. "to lose it afterwards . . . brawl." Cf. Thomas 
Olway, Venice Preserved, IV, ii, "To lose it, it may be, at last in a lewd 
quarrel.": \ .. 

149, 10. Dr. Johnson. Johnson often expressed^ fear of death. 
See Bosweil's Life of Johnson. 



On the Spirit of Obligations t-^* 

This essay was first published in the New -^Monthly Magazine, 
Table Talk, xi. No. 37, Vol. X, 1824. It was republished in The 
Plain Speaker, 2 vols., 1826. 

Of this essay Robert Louis Stevenson says in his essay on Books 
which have Influenced Me: "... Hazlitt, whose paper On the Spirit 
of Obligations was a turning-point in my life." 

150, 10. Nihil humani. Terence, Heauton-timoroumenos, I, i. 

152, 38. "Make mouths at the invisible event." Hamlet, iv, 4, 50. 

153, 9-10. Born for their use. Edward Young, The Revenge, V, ii. 
153, 32. ex cathedra. With authority. 

153, 33. "wise saws." As You Like It, ii, 7, 156. 

154, 7. jump. Agree. 

154, 33. quantum. Due amount. 

155, 16. con amore. With pleasure. 

155, 18. pour oil and balm. Cf. St. Luke, x, 34. 



288 NOTES 

155, 37. Mr. Wilberforce. William Wilberforce (1759-1833), a 
prominent anti-slavery leader. 

156, 8-9. screwed to the sticking-place. Cf. Macbeth, i, 7, 60. 
156, 10-11. "If to their share . . . all." Cf. Pope, The Rape of 

the Lock, II, 17-18. 

156, 16. Granville Sharp. An advocate of anti-slavery (1735- 
1813). 

156, 17. Huhert. A murderer in King John. 

Howard, John (1726-1790), the great reformer of prisons. 
. Sir Hudson Lowe (1769-1844), the overseer of Napoleon at St. 
■Helena, and maligned by all worshippers of Napoleon. 

166, 18. "Charity covers a multitude of sins." l Peter, iv, 8. 

156, 20-22. "The meanest peasant . . . flock." Sterne, A Sen- 
timental J ourneij, The Bourbonnais. 

167, 17. Talma, FranQois Joseph (1763-1826), a great French 
tragic actor. 

167, 22. As one star differs from another. Cf. 1 Corinthians, xv, 
41. 

157, 24-25. Mr. Justice Fielding. William, eldest son of Henry 
Fielding, the novelist (1748-1820). 

167, 37. Booth. In Amelia. 

168, 3. Colonel Bath. In Amelia. 

158, 18-19. "administer to a mind diseased." Cf. Macbeth, v, 3, 
40. 

159, 6-7. "a little lower than the angels." Psalms, viii, 5. 

169, 8-12. "And when I think . . . terrible." Byron's Heaven 
and Earth, Part I, scene i. 

169, 18. The person, whose doors I enter with most pleasure. 
James Northcote, the painter, whose Conversations he edited and pub- 
lished in 1830. 

160, 6. " Enter Sessami." Cf. "Open Sesame," the magic word 
which opened the cave door in AH Baba and the Forty Thieves. 

161, 24. The late Mr. Sheridan. Richard Brindsley Butler Sheri- 
dan, the dramatist, who died in 1816. 

161, 28. "Coin his smile for drachmas." Cf. Julius Ccesar, iv, 3, 
72-73. 



On the Feeling of Immortality in Youth 

This essay appeared first in the New Monthly Magazine, March, 
1827. Republished in Literary Remains and Winterslow. 

163, 1. " Life is a pure flame." Sir Thomas Browne (1605-1682), 
Hydriotaphia: Urn Burial, Chapter V. 

163, 3. my brother's. John Hazlitt (1767-1837), the painter of 
miniatures. This saying is quoted in the essay On the Fear of Death, 
142, 23. 



ON THE FEELING OF IMMORTALITY IN YOUTH 289 

163, 10. The vast, the unbounded prospect lies before us." Cf. 
Joseph Addison, Cato, V, i, 13, "The wide, unbounded prospect lies 
before me." 

163, 13-14. "bear a charmed life." Macbeth, v, 8, 12. 

163, 17. "Bidding the lovely scenes . . . hail." Collins, The 
Passions, 32. 

164, 15-16. " this sensible, warm motion . , . clod." Measure for 
Measure, iii, 1, 120. 

164, 33. "wine of life." Macbeth, ii, 3, 100. 

165, 2. "as in a glass, darkly." 1 Corinthians, xiii, 12. 

165, 9. "So am not I!" Tristram Shandy, Book V, Chapter vii. 

165, 22-23. "Life! thou strange thing . . . are." Joseph Faw- 
cett, The Art of War, 1795, not 1794. An early and influential friend 
of Hazlitt, as well as of Wordsworth. Hazlitt characterizes him with 
deep appreciation in the essay On Criticism, in Table Talk. 

166, 6. "the feast of reason. ' ' Pope, Imitations of Horace, Satire I, 
128. 

166, 15. "brave sublunary things." Cf. Michael Drayton, To 
Henry Reynolds, "Those brave translunary things." 

166, 31-32. "The stockdove plain . . . gale." James Thomson, 
The Castle of Indolence, I, iv. 

167, 4. Lady Wortley Montagu (1690-1762), famed for her letters. 
She is usually called Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, effendi, a Turkish 
term of respect. This passage occurs in the Letter of May 17, 1717. 

167, 15-18. " had it not been . . . link-boys." In TForA;s, II, 254. 
167,21-22. She says of Kichardson. In TForfcs, II, 285 ff., and 222. 

168, 31. monstmm ingens, biforme. Cf. Virgil, ^neid, III, 658. 
Virgil reads informe, — a monster, shapeless, huge. 

168, 34. Mr. Moore. Thomas Moore (1779-1852). 

168,37. "his spirits." TForfcs, II, 283. 

170, 19. "purple light of love." Gray, Progress of Poesy, 14. 

170, 32. "the Raphael grace, the Guido air." Pope, Epistles, III, 
36, "Match Raphael's grace with thy lov'd Guido's air." 

170, 37. "gain a new vigour." William Cowper, Charity, 104. 

172, 4-5. "beguile the slow and creeping hours." Cf. As You 
Like It, ii, 7, 112, "Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time." 

172, 13-173, 17. "For my part . . . youth." This is a notable 
passage, for it expresses with noble eloquence the feelings of Hazlitt, 
Coleridge, and Wordsworth regarding the French Revolution, while 
youth was still upon them. Wordsworth exclaims in The Prelude, 
XI, 108-109: 

"Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive, 
But to be young was very Heaven." 

In many passages Hazlitt states, with the absolute understand- 
ing of a contemporary, the motives of the English revolutionary 
poets. 



290 NOTES 

172,30-31. " From the dungeon . , . cry." Coleridge, *Sonwe< to 
Schiller. See note on On Reading Old Books, 29, 22-25. 

172, 35. Don Carlos. See note on On the Fear of Death, 143, 37. 

173, 16. "That time is past . . . raptures." Wordsworth, Lines 
Composed a Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey, 84-86. 

174, 1-2. " Even from the tomh . . . fires." Gray, Elegy Written 
in a Country Churchyard, 91-92. 

174, 9-10. " All the life of life is flown." Cf. Robert Burns, 
Lament for James, Earl of Glencairn, .stanza vi. 

174, 18-19. "From the last dregs . . . give." John Dryden, 
Aurengzebe, IV, i. 

176, 9. "treason domestic." Cf. Macbeth, iii, 2, 24-26. 

175, 21-22. " reverbs its own hollowness." King Lear, i, 1, 145. 



Merry England 

This essay was first published in the New Monthly Magazine 
for December, 1822. It was republished in Sketches and Essays, 
1839. 

176, 1. "St. George for Merry England." St. George displaced 
Saint Edward as patron saint of England in 1349. His name soon 
became a rallying cry. The epithet "Merry" was early applied to 
places and is a ballad commonplace, as "Merry Carlisle," "Merry 
Lincoln," etc^ "Merry England" occurs in- the Cursor Mundi, c. 
1310. 

176, 3-4. ut lucus a non lucendo. The usual formris- lucus a non 
lucendo, "light from its not shining," hence, " an absurdity." 

176i 11. "-The pleasure of going and coming." The source of 
this quotation ^as not been identified. 

176, 26. " I have been merry." 2 Henry TV, v, 3, 42. 

176, 28. " Chirped over his cups." The title of one of the chap- 
ters in. Rcibelais. - 

176^29-30. ." there were pippins and cheese to come." The-Merry 
Wives of Windso-r, i, 2, 12. r . ♦ ^ . ^>-i 

177,2-3. "Continent? , . .^ contain." Thomas Hobbes, j^wwan 
Nature. 

177,25-26. "amused themselves sadly." Waller and Glover 
draw attention to the fact that this famous saying is wrongly at- 
tributed to Froissart. The source of the idea is in dispute. See 
Notes and Queries, 1863 IT. 

177, 38. " eat, drink, and are merry." Cf. St. Luke, xii, 19. 

178, 4. "hairbreadth -scapes." Othello, i, 3, 136. 

178, 7. Punch. From ItaUan Punchinello, the popular puppet 
in the puppet play. Punch and Judy. 



MERRY ENGLAND 291 

178, 30-31. Jack-o'-the-Green. Strutt, in English Sports and Pas- 
times: 

"The Jack in the Green is a piece of pageantry consisting of a hol- 
low frame of wood or wicker-work, made in the form of a sugar loaf, 
but open at the bottom and sufficiently large and high to receive a 
man. The frame is covered with green leaves and bunches of flowers 
interwoven with each other, so that the man within may be com- 
pletely concealed, who dances with his companions, and the populace 
are mightily pleased with the oddity of the moving pyramid." 

179, 4-5. Old Lord's. Lord's is still the famous cricket-ground of 
London. 

179, 25. " passage of arms at Ashby." Described by Sir Walter 
Scott, Ivanhoe, Chapter viii. 

180,3-4. "A cry more tuneable ... horn." A Midsummer 
Might's Dre%m, iv, 1, 121-122. 

180, 20-21. " brothers of the angle. " Isaac Walton, The Compleat 
Angler, Part I, Chapter i. The date of the first edition of this famous 
book is 1653. 

182, 11. Book of Sports. The King's Majesties Declaration to his 
Subjects concerning lawfull Sports to be Used, by James I, 1618, re- 
issued by Charles I, 1633. 

182,16-17. " And e'en on Sunday . . . Monday." Robert Burns, 
Tarn O'Shanter, 27-2S. 

182, 24. Bartholomew Fair. A famous fair held at West Smith- 
field, London, 1133-1850, about St. Bartholomew's Day, August 24.. 

Queen Mab. The Fairy Queen of English folklore. 

183, 1. Gilray. James Gilray (1757-1813), the well-known cari- 
caturist, displayed his prints in the window of Miss Humphrey's shop, 
29 St. James Strest. 

184, 38. Lord Byron. Byron's Letters and Journals, V, 528, 533- 
535, 539 S. (Prothero's edition.) 

185, 7. "merry and wise." The English popular proverb, "'Tis 
good to be merry and wise." 

185, 13. " That under Heaven is blown." Spenser, Faerie Queene, 
Book I, Canto vii, stanza 32. Cf. also, Marlowe, Tamburlaine, 
Part II, Act iv, scene 3. 

186, 27. Lubin Log. In James Kennedy (1780-1849), Love, Law 
and Physic. 

Tony Lumpkin. In Goldsmith's She Stoops to Conquer. 

187, 15-20. NeU in The Devil to Pay, by Coffey: Little Pickle in 
The Spoil d Child,, a part created by Mrs. Jordan; Touchstone in As 
You Like It; Sir Peter Teazle in The School for Scandal, by Sheridan; 
Lenitive in The Prize, bv Prince Hoare; Lingo in The Anreenble Sur- 
prise, by O'Keefe; Crabtree in The School for Scandal: Nipperkin in 
Sprigs of Laurel, a part created by Munden; old Dornton in The 
Road to Ruin, by Thomas Holcroft; Banger in The Suspicious Hus- 
bandf by Hoadly ; the Copper Captain in Rule a Wife and Have a Wife, 



292 NOTES 

by John Fletcher, one of Lewis's great parts; Lord Sands in Shake- 
speare's King Henry VIII; Filch in Gay's The Beggar's Opera; Moses 
in The School for Scandal; Sir Andrew Aguecheek in Twelfth Night; 
Acres in Sheridan's The Rivals; Elbow m Measure for Measure; 
Hodge in the comic opera Love in a Village, by Isaac Bickerstaff; 
Flora in The Wonder, by Mrs. Centlivre; the Duenna in Sheridan's 
Duenna; Lady Teazle in Sheridan's The School for Scandal; Lady Grace 
in The Provoked Husband, by Vanbrugh and Gibber. 

187, 23. " Throwing a gaudy shadow upon life." The source of 
this quotation has not been discovered. 

187, 29. Liston, John (1776?-1846), a comic actor. 

187, 29-30. Roderick Random. A novel by Tobias Smollett, 
1748. 

187, 30. Hogarth, William (1697-1764). Marriage h la Mode, a 
series of plates dealing with social satire, 1745. 

187, 31. " Tut! theres livers." Gf. Cymheline, iii, 4, 143, "There's 
livers out of Britain." 

187, 36-37. "What's our Britain . . . nest." Gf. Cymheline, iii, 
4, 140-142. 

188, 5. Mrs. Abington, Frances (1737-1815), a famous actress. 
Hazlitt wrote, in Lectures on the Comic Writers: "I would rather have 
seen Mrs. Abington' s Millamant than any Rosalind that ever ap- 
peared on the stage." 

Mademoiselle Mars (1779-1847), a clever actress in the plays of 
Moliere at the Theatre Frangais, Paris. 

188, 7. Misanthrope. One of Moliere's greatest plays, 1666. 

188, 23. As I write this. During the journey from August, 1824, 
to October, 1825. 

188, 29. "And gaudy butterflies." Gay, The Beggar's Opera, I 
(Pollv's Song). 

189, 15. "all appliances." 2 Henry IV, iii, 1, 29. 



On Disagreeable People 

First published in the New Monthly Magazine, August, 1827. Re- 
published in Sketches and Essays, 1839. 

191, 22. "discourse of reason." Gf. Hamlet, i, 2, 150, and iv, 4, 
36-.37. 

192, 7. " The whole need not a physician." St. Matthew, ix, 12. 
192, 18-26. "As when . . . round." Thomson, Castle of Indo- 
lence, I, Stanaa Ixiv. 

194, 38. sent to Coventry. Ostracised, refused the privileges of 
association. 

195, 7. alter idem, another exactly similar. 

195, 8-9. " yea, into our heart of hearts." Hamlet, iii, 2, 78. 



ON FAMILIAR STYLE 293 

195, 12-13. "the volumes that enrich the shops." Earl of Ros- 
common, Horace's Art of Poetry (1680). 

195, 16. "That bring their authors." Cf. The Earl of Roscom- 
mon, Horace's Art of Poetry, "That bring their authors to eternal 
fame." 

195, 31. Walton's Angler. The Compleat Angler, 1653. 

195, 32-33. "That dallies ... old age." Twelfth Night, ii, 4, 
48-49. 

195, 34. Mandeville, Bernard (1670-1723), author of the famous 
Fable of the Bees; or Private Vices Public Benefits, 1714. 

197, 20. "Wit at the helm . . . prow. Cf. Gray, The Bard, 74. 
"Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm." 

197, 27-28. a butt, according to the Spectator. Spectator, No. 47. 

198, 13. Cain; a Mystery, published in 1821. 
200, 8. in corpore oili, "on a worthless body." 

200, 12. "hew you . . . gods." Ci. Julius Ccesar, ii, 1, 173-174. 

200, 23. tempera mollia fandi. Cf. Virgil, ^neid, IV, 293-294, 
"the happiest moments for speech." 

201,4-5. "Not to admire , . . them so." Pope, Imitations of 
Horace, Book I, Epistle vi, 1-2. 

201, 10. Westminster School of Reform. The group of reformers 
around the Westminster Review, founded in 1823 by Jeremy Bentham. 
James Mill and John Stuart Mill were also associated with the group. 

201, 28-29. " the milk of human kindness." Macbeth, i, 5, 15. 



On Familiar Style 

This essay first appeared in Table Talk, 1821-1822. It should be 
studied by anyone who wishes to appreciate what English style is, as 
it is one of the wisest essays ever written on this important theme. 

205,12. "tall, opaque words," Sierne, Tristram Shandy, 'BookUl, 
Chapter xx (Author's Preface). 

205, 13. " first row of the rubric." Cf. Hamlet, ii, 2, 437, "the first 
row of the pious chanson." The rubrics are the headings or direc- 
tions, so called because they were originally written in red. 

205, 35-38. With true instinct for style in English, Hazlitt pitches 
upon the verse of Marlowe. 

206, 16-20. I never invented . . . distinction. The truth of these 
words becomes more apparent and more remarkable as one studies the 
various prose of Hazlitt. His diction is remarkably free from all the 
faults that come from a striving after modernity or antiquity. 

208, 12. Burton, Robert (1577-1640), the author of The Anatomy 
of Melancholy: Fuller, Thomas (1608-1661), author of History of the 
Worthies of England, 1662; Coryate, or Coryat, Thomas (1577-1617), 
an English traveller, author of Coryat' s Crudities, 1611; Browne, or 



294 NOTES 

Brown, Sir Thomas (1605-1682), author of Religio Medici, 1643, and 
Hydriotaphia, 1658. These authors were influential in the formation 
of Lamb's style. 

208, 17. Elia. The name under which Lamb first contributed to 
The London Magazine in 1820, and which he retained. 

208, 19. Mrs. Battle's Opinions on IVhist. This famous essay first 
appeared in The London Magazine, February, 1821. 

208, 21. "A well of native English undefiled." Spenser, Faerie 
Queene, IV, ii, 32: 

"Dan Chaucer, well of English undefyled. 
On Fame's eternall beadroU worthie to be fyled." 

208, 24. Erasmus's Colloquies. Erasmus (1466-1536) wrote the 
Colloquies in 1524. 

208, 31. " What do you read? " Hamlet, ii, 2, 193-195. 

209, 13. sermo humi obrepens. Cf. Horace, Epistles, II, i, 250-251, 
"that crawls in prose along the ground." 

209, 16. " ambition is more lowly." Cf. The Tempest, i, 2, 480- 
481: 

' ' My affections 
Are then most humble." 

209, 18. "unconsidered trifles." The Winter's Tale, iv, 3, 25-26. 
209, 25. Ancient Pistol. In Henry IV, Henry V, and The Merry 
Wives of Wi7idsor. 

209,30. "That strut . . . stage." Macbeth, v, 5, 25. 
209, 34. "And on their pens . . . plumed." Cf. Paradise Lost, 
IV, 988-989: 

"And on his crest 
Sat Horror plumed." 

210,5-6. " Nature's own sweet . . . laid on." Twelfth Night, i, 5, 
258. 

211, 10. Cowper'S description. Cowper, The Task, 173-176. 



On the Prose-Style of Poets 

This essay appeared in The Plain Speaker; Opinions on Books, Men, 
and Things, 1826. 

212,1. " Do you read or sing ? " Hazlitt attributes this to Csesar, 
who put this question to a certain speaker. 

212, 7. " feathered, two-legged things." Cf. Dryden, Absalomand 
Achitophel, i, 170. 

212, 26-27. " unpleasing flats and sharps. Cf. Romeo and Juliet, 
iii, 5, 28, "Straining harsh discords and unpleasing sharps." 



ON THE PROSE-STYLE OF POETS 295 

213, 3. Ossian'S Poems. The so-called translations by James 
Macpherson (1736-1796), published 1761-1763. 

213,4. Shaftesbury's Characteristics.' Characteristics of Men, Man- 
ners, Opinions, and Times, by Anthony Ashley Cooper, third Earl of 
Shaftesbury (1671-1713). The book was pubUshed in 1711, and was 
one of the most influential philosophical works of the eighteenth cen- 
tury. 

213, 20-21. "foregone conclusion." Othello, iii, 3, 426. 

213, 23. Home Tooke (1736-1S12), author of The Diversions of 
Parley, and Member of Parliament for Old Sarum. 

214, 3. Old Sarum. See previous note. He was defeated for 
Westminster. 

214, 13-14. "He murmurs . . . own." Wordsworth, A PoeVs 
Epitiph, 39-40. 

215, 22. " come trippingly off the tongue." Cf. Hamlet, iii, 2, 2. 

216, 25. invita Minerva. Horace, De Arte Poctica, 385, "against 
the bent of genius, or nature." 

216, 37. ad libitum, at his pleasure. 

218, 14. Nine. That is, the Nine Muses; poetry. 

218, 18. " treads the primrose path of dalliance." Hamlet, i, 3, 50. 

218, 18-19. "the highest heaven of invention." King Henry F, 
Prologue, 2. 

218, 19-20. He is nothing if not fanciful! Cf. Othello, ii, 1, 120. 

218, 28. Bristol-stones. Colorless quartz crystals found near 
Bristol. Thev are called Bristol diamonds. 

218, 32. " On the unsteadfast footing." l Henry IV, i, 3, 193. 

219,30-31. "To make us heirs . . . lays." Wordsworth, Per- 
sonil Talk, 53-54. 

220, 14. " Like beauty . . . rime." Shakespeare, Sonnet cvi. 
230, 18. Letter to a Noble Lord. Burke published this famous 

pamohlet in 1796. 

221, 9-10. "Dumdomus . , . habebit." Virgil, ^ncitZ, ix, 448-449: 
"So long as the house of .^neas dwells hard by the immoveable 
rock of the Capitol, and the father of Rome holds his imperial 
sway." 

221,15. "buttress frieze . . . 'vantage." Cf. ilfac6e^/i, i, 6, 6-8. 

221, 19. " at one fell swoop." Macbeth, iv, 3, 119. 

221,20. "low, fat Bedford level." From the passage quoted 
from Burke's Letter to a Noble Lord on page 220. The Duke of Bed- 
ford was one of the persons attacked in the pamphlet. 

221,23-24. "sharp and sweet." Cf. All's Well that Ends Well, 
iv, 4. 33, "as sweet as sharp." 

221, 26. durante bene placilo, "during his good pleasure." 

221, 27. for better for worse. Words from the usual marriage cere- 
mony. 

221,36-37. "From Windsor's heights . . . survey." Cf. Gray, 
Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College, 6-7. 



296 NOTES 

222, 1, the so-much-admired description. In the Speech on the 
Revenues of the Carnatic, February 28, 1785. 

222, 7. Abbe Sieyes's far-famed "pigeon-holes." In Burke's Let- 
ter to a Noble Lord. 

222, 8. " the Leviathan." In Burke's Letter to a Noble Lord. 

222, n. " Created hugest . . .stream." Paradise Lost, I, 200-2Q2. 

222, 22. " put his hook in the nostrils." Job, xli, 1-2. 

222, 27. Lord Castlereagh. Viscount Castlereagh and Marquis 
of Londonderry (1769-1822). He committed suicide; hence the 
reference to the corpse "lying uncovered in the place where it fell " 
(223. 18), and to the "coroner's inquest" (224, 8). 

223, 22-23. Mr. Montgomery. James Montgomery (1771-1854), 
editor of the Sheffield /ns, 1794-1825. 

223, 24. travelling out of the record, wandering from the point at 
issue. 

224, 11. " elevate and surprise." Buckingham, The Rehearsal, I, 1. 

224, 20-21. Poets have been said to succeed best in fiction. Ed- 
mund Waller is said to have made this reply to Charles II when the 
King complained of the poor qualities of the poet's verses on the Res- 
toration as compared with his panegyric on Cromwell. 

225, 8-9. " forlorn way obscure." Cf. Paradise Lost, II, 615. 
225, 30. the poet laureate. Robert Southey. 

225, 33. Fuller, Thomas (1608-1661), author of The Worthies of 
England; Burton. Robert (1577-1640), author of The Anatomy of 
Melancholy; Latimer, Hugh (1491-1555), author of Sermons. 

226, 2. " stoops to earth." Cf. Pope, Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot, 341. 
226, 15-16. "the words of Mercury." Love's Labour's Lost, v, 2, 

939-940. 

226, 23. Wat Tyler. Written in 1794, published in 1817. 

226, 24. The author of Rimini. Leigh Hunt published Rimini in 
1816. His Examiner began to appear January 3, 1808. 

227, 1. his effusions in the Indicator. From October 13, 1819, to 
March 21, 1821, and from March 28, 1821, to October 13, 1821. 



On a Landscape of Nicolas Poussin 

This essay was first published in the London Magazine for August, 
1821. It was republished in Table Talk, 1821-1822. 

Nicolas Poussin (1594-1665) was a celebrated French painter. 

228, 1. "And blind Orion . . . mom," Cf . John Keats, Endym- 
ion, II, 198. 

228. 3. " a hunter of shadows." Homer's Odyssey, XI, 572-575. 

228, 4-5. having lost an eye. He offered violence to Merope, and 
was blinded by her father CEnopion with the help of Dionysus. 



ON A LANDSCAPE OF NICOLAS POUSSIN 297 

228, 13-14. "grey dawn and the Pleiades." Paradise Lost, VII, 
373-374. 

228, 21. " shadowy sets o5." Paradise Lost, V, 43. 

228, 27. Sir Joshua has done him justice in this respect. See Sir 
Joshua Reynolds, Dicour.-ies, V. 

229, 1. " denote a foregone conclusion." Othello, iii, 3, 428. 
229, 7. " take up the isles." Isaiah, xl, 15. 

229, 26. " so potent art." The Tempest, v, 1, 50. 

229, 34. " more than natural." Hamlet, ii, 2, 385. 

230, 1. " gives to airy nothing." A Midsummer Night's Dream, 

V, 1. 16-17. 

232, 2. " o'er-informed." Dryden, Absalom and Achitophel, I, 158. 

232, 10. "the very stones prate." Macbeth, ii, 1, 58. 

233,1. "Leaping like . . . spring." Spenser, The Faerie Queene, 
I, vi, 14. 

233, 18. " his picture of the shepherds." A favorite with Hazlitt. 
It is in the Louvre. 

233, 20. " Et ego in Arcadia vixi." The source of this quotation 
has never been definitely determined. See Notes and Queries, Series 

VI, Volume VI, 396. 

233, 23. " the valleys low." Cf. Lycidas, 136. 

233,31-32. " within the book . . . matter." i/amZe^ i, 5, 103-104. 

234, 2-3. "the sober certainty . . . bliss." Milton, Comus, 263. 
234, 5. "he who knows of these delights." Milton, Sonnet to Mr. 

Lawrence. 

234, 21. the Caracci. The Caracci were three: Agostino (1558- 
1602), his brother Annibale (1560-1609), and their cousin Lodovico 
(1555-1619). They founded the Bolognese school of painting. 

234,29-30. "Old Genius . . . wend." Spenser, Faerie Queene, 
III, vi, 31-32. 

234, 35. " there were propagation too ! • ' Cf . Measure for Measure, 
i, 2, 154, " Only propagation of a dower." 

235, 1. "scattered like stray gifts." Cf. Wordsworth, Stray 
Pleasures, 27-28. 

235, 5. Blenheim. The seat of the Duke of Marlborough, about 
ten miles from Oxford. 

Burleigh. Burleigh House, the seat of Lord Burleigh, near Stam- 
ford in Lincolnshire. 

235, 6. Mr. Angerstein. John Julius Angerstein (1735-1823), a 
merchant and patron of the arts, whose collection forms the basis 
of the present National Gallery. 

935, 6. Lord Grosvenor. In Grosvenor House, London, founded 
by Richard, first Earl of Grosvenor. 

The Marquis of Stafford. In London. 

235, 10-11. the Louvre is stripped. The paintings and other 
treasures of Art which Napoleon had carried to the Louvre were re- 
stored in 1815. 



298 NOTES 

235, 12, Iron Crown. The Iron Crown of Charlemagne was 
offered Napoleon when he was crowned in Paris, December 2, 1804. 

235, 13. the hunter of greatness and glory. Napoleon died on 
May 5, 1821, at St. Helena. 



Mr. Coleridge 

This essay was first published in The Spirit of the Age or Contem- 
porary Portraits, 1825. This essay should be compared with My 
First Acquaintance with Poets, as the expression of Hazlitt's disillusion- 
ment. A good deal of the essay is based on conversations with 
Coleridge, and a number of the references to Coleridge's activities can- 
not be found in his published writings. 

In the lecture on The Living Poets, in his Lectures on the English 
Poets, delivered and published in 1818, Hazlitt paid the following 
tribute to Coleridge, which should be compared with the present essay 
and with My First Acquaintance with Poets. The passage is, more- 
over, one of the great passages in English prose. 

" But I may say of him here, that he is the only person I ever knew 
who answered to the idea of a man of genius. He is the only person 
from whom I ever learnt anything. There is only one thing he could 
learn from me in return, but that he has not. He was the first poet I 
ever knew. His genius at that time had angelic wings, and fed on 
manna. He talked on forever; and you wished him to talk on for- 
ever. His thoughts did not seem to come with labour and effort; but 
as if borne on the gusts of genius, and as if the wings of his imagination 
lifted him from off his feet. His voice rolled on the ear like the peal- 
ing organ, and its sound alone was the music of thought. His mind 
was clothed with wings; and raised on them, he lifted philosophy to 
heaven. In his descriptions, you then saw the progress of human 
happiness and liberty in bright and never-ending succession, like the 
steps of Jacob's ladder, with airy shapes ascending and descending, 
and with the voice of God at the top of the ladder. And shall I, who 
heard him then, listen to him now? Not I! . . . That spell is broke; 
that time is gone forever; that voice is heard no more; but still the 
recollection comes rushing by with thoughts of long-past years, and 
rings in my ears with never-dying sound." 

236, 14-15. and thank the bounteous Pan. Cf. Milton, Comus, 
176. 

236, 20. "a mind reflecting ages past." In the first line of a com- 
mendatory poem signed "J. M. S." in the Second Folio (1632). 
Coleridge conjectured that J. M. S. indicated "John Milton, Student." 

236, 21-22. "dark rearward and abyss." Cf. The Tempest, i, 2, 
50, "In the dark backward and abysm of time." 



MR. COLERIDGE 299 

236,29-31. "That which was . . . water." Antony and Cleo- 
patra, iv, 14, 9-11. 

237, 4. " quick, forgetive." Cf. 2 Henry IV, iv, 3, 106-107. 

237, 19. Peter Abelard (1079-1142), the famous scholar and lover 
of Eloisa. 

237, 21. Courier. A newspaper to which Coleridge contributed at 
various periods from before 1809 to the close of his active life. 

237, 23. " what in him is weak." Cf. Paradise Lost, I, 22-23. 

238, 5-6. "and by the force . . . confusion." Cf. Macbeth, iii, 5, 
28-29. 

238, 11. " rich strond." Spencer's Faerie Queene, III, iv, 18, 29, 34. 

238, 11-12. " goes sounding on his way." See the note on 9, 6. 

238, 27 "his own things monstered." Cf. Coriolanus, ii, 1, 81, 
"To hear my nothings monster'd." 

238, 28-29 letting contemplation have its fill. George Dyer, 
Gronqar Hill, 26. 

238, 30-31. "Sailing with supreme . . . air." Gray, The Prog- 
ress of Poesy, 115-116. 

239, 12. "He lisped in numbers . . . came." Pope, Prologue to 
the Satires, 128. 

239, 13. Ode on Chaiterton. Monody on the Death of Chatterton. 
Composed in 1790, when Coleridge was only eighteen. 

239, 20-21. gained several prizes. He won the Browne Gold 
Medal for a Greek Ode in 1792. 

239, 26-27. Christ's Hospital. A famous boys' school in London 
which was attended by Coleridge and Lamb. Hazlitt here has refer- 
ence to the famous passage on Coleridge in the well-known essay by 
Lamb (Elia) on Christ's Hospital Five and Twenty Years Ago (1820): 

"Samuel Taylor Coleridge — Logician, Metaphysician, Bard! — 
How have I seen the casual passer through the Cloisters stand still, 
intranced with admiration (while he weighed the disproportion be- 
tween the speech and the garb of the young Mirandula), to hear thee 
unfold, in thy deep and sweet intonations, the mysteries of Jam- 
blichus, or Plotinus (for even in those years thou waxedst not pale 
at such philosophic draughts), or reciting Homer in his Greek, or 
Pindar — while the walls of the old Grey Friars re-echoed to the 
accents of the inspired charity boy!" 

240,9. "Struggling in vain . . . destiny." Wordsworth, The 
Excursion, VI, 557. 

240, 14. Hartley's tribes of mind. David Hartley (1705-1757), 
author of Observations on Man, his Frame, his Duty, and his Expecta- 
tions. 1749. "Tribes of the mind" is reminiscent of Coleridge's own 
words describing Hartley's system. Religious Musings, 369, "he first 
who marked the ideal tribes." Cf. Collins, Ode on the Poetical Char- 
acter, 47, "All the shadowy tribes of mind." 

240, 15. etherial braid, thought-woven. Cf. Collins, Ode to 
Evening, 7, "With brede ethereal wove." 



300 NOTES 

240, 16. vibratiuncles. Theoretical fine movements in the brain, 
refinements of external and nervous vibrations, by which sensa- 
tions were produced. This is an important aspect of Hartley's 
system. 

240, 16-17. the great law of association. In Hartley's system, 
this law expressed the process by which sensation changed from sensa- 
tion to ideas of sensation and hence to ideas of thought and the more 
ideal forms of thought. 

240, 21. Priestley's Materialism. Dr. Priestley identified matter 
and spirit in his philosophy. 

241, 22-23. like Ariel. The Tempest, I, ii. 

240* 24. Bishop Berkeley's fairy-world. This refers to the ideal- 
istic nature of Berkeley's philosophy, as contrasted with the material- 
ism of Hartley's and Priestley's. 

240, 26. Malebranche (1638-1715), a French metaphysician who 
is best known in English criticism as the great enemy of Imagination 
in his Recherche de la Verite, 1674. 

240, 27. Cudworth's Intellectual System. Published in 1678, by 
Ralph Cudworth (1617-1688). 

240, 28. Lord Brooke. Fulke Greville, Lord Brooke (1554-1628), 
the friend and biographer of Sir Philip Sidney. 

240, 29. Bishop Butler. Joseph Butler (1692-1752), author of the 
famous Analogy of Religion, 1736. 

240, 29-30. the Duchess of Newcastle (1624-1674) published 
poems, plays, and philosophical works, 1653-1668. 

240, 30. Clarke, Samuel (1675-1729), a noted divine and meta- 
physician. His most famous contribution to philosophic thought is 
his argument for the existence of God. South, Robert (1633-1716), 
a famous English divine. He began the notable controversy on the 
Trinity, 1693. 

241, 1. Tillotson, John (1630-1694), became Archbishop of Can- 
terbury in 1691. 

241,2. Leihiiitz^B Pre-established Harmony. Liebnitz (1646-1716) 
was a celebrated German philosopher. His system was that of a pre- 
established harmony between matter and spirit. 

241, 6. hortus siccus, collection of dried botanical specimens. 

Dissent. A dissenter is one who dissents from the doctrines of the 
established Church. 

241, 10. John Huss (1369-1415), the great Bohemian religious re- 
former and martyr; Jerome of Prague (1365-1416), an associate and 
follower of Huss; Socinus (1530-1604), an Italian Unitarian theo- 
logian (1360-1424), a noted follower of Huss. 

241, 11. Neal, Daniel (1648-1743), History of the Puritans, 1732- 
1738. 

241, 12. Calamy, Edmund (1671-1732), Account of the Ministers, 
Lecturers, Masters, and Fellows of Colleges and Schoolmasters who were 
Ejected or Silenced after the Restoration of 1660, 1702. 



MR. COLERIDGE 301 

241, 12-13. like thoughts and passions. Cf. Acts, xiv, 15, "like 
pa^si:)ns." 

241, 13. Spinoza, Baruch de (1632-1677), the most eminent ex- 
poundar of panth^ m. 

241, 23-25. "When he saw nought hut heauty . . , murmured." 
The source of this qaotation nas not been discovered. 

241, 27. Proclus ^A.D. 412-485), the most famous of the Athenian 
Neo-Platonists; Plotinus (A.D. 204-270), a Neo-Platonic philoso- 
pher. 

241, 29. Dans Scotus (12657-1308), one of the founders of scholas- 
ticism; AqLainas. Thomas (1225 or 1227-1274), a celebrated theo- 
logian and .s:;'iolastic philosopher. 

241, 30. Jacob Behmen (1575-1624), a celebrated German mystic. 

241, 31. Swedenborg, Emanuel (1688-1772), a celebrated Swedish 
theosophist, founder of the Swedenborgian church; author of Arcana 
Coelestia, 1749-1753. 

241, 33. Religious Musings. Written by Coleridge "on the Christ- 
mas Eve of 17. )L" 

241, 36. Bowles's Sonnets. Coleridge has left a notable account 
of this in his Biographia Literaria, Chapter I. 

242, 2. Arbuthnot, John (1667-1735). He pubhshed Life in a 
Bottomless Pit; or History of John Bull, 1712. 

242, 7. Marivaux, Pierre (1688-1763), a French dramatist and 
novehst. Crebillon, Prosper de (1674-1762), a noted French tragic 
poet. 

242, 8. "laughed with Rabelais." Cf. Pope, The Dunciad, I, 22. 

242, 9-18. Coleridge visited Rome in 1806. Some idea of what 
his conversations were may be gathered from his Table Talk, issued 
by H. N. Coleridge in 1835. 

242, 14. Triumph of Death. A fresco in the Campo Santo, Pisa, 
now ascribed to the Lorenzetti. 

242, 20. Kantean philosophy. Coleridge gives an account of this 
stage of his development m his Biographia Literaria, Chapter IX. 

242, 26. sang for joy. In Destruction of the Bastille written" in 
1789. 

242,31. "In Philharmonia's undivided dale." Coleridge, Mon- 
ody on the Death of Chatterfon, version of 1794, line 151, " Freedom's 
undivided dale," and To Rev. W. J. Hort, 15, "In Freedom's undi- 
vided dell." This refers to the scheme of Pantisocracy, a communal 
settlement in America, planned by Coleridge, Southey, and others. 

242, 32. " Frailty, thy name is Genius." Cf. Hamlet, i, 2, 146. 

242, 35. Courier. See note on 237 21. 

243, 11. Poet laureate or stamp-distributor. A palpable hit at 
Southey and Wordsworth respectively. 

243, 13. "bourne from whence no traveller returns." Hamlet, 
iii, 1, 79-80. 

343, 32. one splendid passage. Lines 408-426. 



302 NOTES 

244, 27. Friend. Coleridge began The Friend as a weekly paper 
which continued more or less irregularly from June 1, 1809, to March 
15, 1810. It appeared in three volumes in 1818. 

244, 32. Mr. Godwin. William Godwin, the author of Political 
Justice, 1793. 

245, 13. "He cannot be constrained by mastery." Cf. Words- 
worth, The Excursion, VI, 163-164: 

"That Love will not submit to be controlled 
By mastery." 

246, 7. Pingo in eternitatem, "1 paint for eternity." 

246, 17. " taught with the little nautilus." Pope, Essay on Man, 
III, 177. 

246, 19. "Youth at its prow . . . helm." Cf. Gray, The Bard, 
II, 2. 

247, 9. "from the pelting . . . storm." King Lear, iii, 4, 29. 
247, 14. " as with triple steel." Paradise Lost, II, 569. 

247, 21. " His words were hollow." Cf. Paradise Lost, II, 112-17. 
247, 25-26. "And curs'd the hour . . . way." Cf. William Col- 
Uns, Oriental Eclogues, II, refrain. 



Mr. Wordsworth 

This essay first appeared in The Spirit of the Age; or Contemporary 
Portraits, 1825. It should be compared with My First Acquaintance 
with Poets. As in the case of the essay on Mr. Coleridge, a consider- 
able number of the acts and opinions attributed to Wordsworth are 
from conversations which Hazlitt had with the poet. The essay is 
full of noble appreciation of Wordsworth, in spite of the acid of dis- 
paragement. In many ways, resulting from unusual opportunities 
and kindred aims, Hazlitt is one of the "best knowers" of Words- 
worth, second only to Coleridge — par nobile fratrum. The follow- 
ing passage from his lecture on The Living Poets, in Ms Lectures on the 
English Poets, delivered and published in 1818, is at once an illus- 
tration of this and a fine example of concentrated criticism. 

"Mr. Wordsworth is the most original poet now living. He is the 
reverse of Walter Scott in his defects and excellences. He has nearly 
all that the other wants, and wants all that the other possesses. His 
poetry is not external, but internal; it does not depend upon tradition 
or story, or old song; he furnishes it from his own mind, and is his 
own subject. He is the poet of mere sentiment. Of many of the 
Lyrical Ballads it is not possible to speak in terms of too high praise, 
such as Heart-leap Well, The Banks of the Wye, Poor Susan, parts of 
The Leech-gatherer, the Lines to a Cuckoo, To a Daisy, The Complaint, 
several of the Sonnets, and a hundred others of inconceivable beauty, 



MR. WORDSWORTH 303 

of perfect originality and pathos. They open a finer and deeper vein 
of thought and feeling than any poet in modern times has done, or 
attempted." 

248, 5-6. "lowliness is young ambitions ladder." Julius Ccesar, 
ii, 1, 22. 

248, 9. "no figures . . . men." Cf. Julius Ccesar, ii, 1, 231-232. 

248, 22. " skyey influences." Measure for Measure, iii, 1, 9. 
248,27. "Nihil humani . . . puto." Terence, Heauton-iimorou- 

menos, I, i, 25. 

249, 19. Lyrical Ballads. Published in 1798. 

249,26-27. "the cloud-capt towers." Cf. The Tempest, iv, 1, 
151-156. 

249, 31. de novo, anew; tabula rasa, a white sheet. 

249, 36. " the judge s robe." Cf. Measure for Measure, ii, 2, 59-61. 
249,38-250, 1. The Ode and Epode . . . scorn. That is, he defied 

the classic tradition in English literature, and wrote simply. 

250, 3. decencies. Probably a reminiscence of that famous pas- 
sage in Burke, Reflections on the Revolution in France, "All the decent 
drapery of life is to be rudely torn off," etc. 

250, 12. gathers manna. Numbers, xi, 7-8. 

250, 12-13. strikes the barren rock. Numbers, xx, 11 ; Psalm Ixxviii, 
20. The Biblical word is "smote." 

250, 17-19. " a sense of joy . . . field." Wordsworth, Lines 
Written at a Small Distance from my House, 6-8. 

250, 26-30. " Beneath the hills . . . destiny. Cf. Wordsworth, 
The Excursion, VI, 553-557. 

251, 2. vain pomp and glory. Henry VIII, iii, 2, 365. 

251, 20. association. Doubtless referring to Wordsworth's own 
doctrine of poetry as expressed in the Preface to the Lyrical Ballads, 
1800: 

"The principal object, then, which I proposed to myself in these 
poems was to make the incidents of common life interesting by tracing 
in them, truly though not ostentatiously, the primary laws of our 
nature: chiefly as far as regards the manner in which we associate 
ideas in a state of excitement." 

251, 32-33. "To him the meanest flower . . . tears." Cf. Ode 

on the Intimations of Immortality, 206-207. 

253, 4. Cole-Orton. The residence of Sir George Beaumont, a 
friend and admirer of Wordsworth. Wordsworth frequently expressed 
his indebtedness to Sir George and Lady Beaumont. He dedicated 
the 1815 edition of his poems to him. 

253, 7. Laodamia. Published in 1815. 

253, 10. " Calm contemplation . . . pains." Cf. Laodamia, 72. 

263,33. "Pall blunted . . , breast." Cf. Goldsmith, The 
Traveller, 232. 



304 NOTES 

254, 1. " and fit audience found, though few." Cf. Paradise Lost, 
VII, 31. Quoted by Wordsworth in Tke Home at Grasmere, The Re- 
cluse, 776-778: 

" 'Fit audience let me find though few,' 

So prayed, more gaining than he asked, the Bard — 
In holiest mood." 

254, 3. The Excursion. Published in 1814. 

254, 24. toujours perdrix, i.e., "always partridges." An allusion to 
a French king who illustrated the advantages of variety by serving 
partridges day after day to his confessor, without any change of diet. 

264, 36. " man of no mark or likelihood " Cf. 1 Henry IV, iii, 2, 45, 
255,23-24. " Flushed with a purple grace . . . face." Dryden, 
Alexayider's Feast, 51-52. 

255, 29. Titian (1477-1576), a famous Venetian painter. 

255, 30. Bacchus and Ariadne, now in the National Gallery, 
London. 

255 35-36. modernize some of the Canterbury Tales. The Prior- 
ess' Tale, 1820: Troilus and Cressida, 1841. 

256, 6-7. " He hates those interlocutions." Hazlitt says of Words- 
worth in The English Poets, "He hates the dialogues in Shakespeare." 

256, 12-14. " Action is momentary . . . infinite." Cf. Words- 
worth', The Borderers (written 1795-6, published 1842), Hues 1539- 
1544. In a note to The White Doe of Rylstone, published in 1815, he 
says: "This and the five lines which follow were either read or recited 
by me, more than thirty years ago, to the late Mr. Hazlitt, who 
quoted some expressions in them (imperfectly remembered) in a work 
of his published several years ago." 

256, 17. has a great dislike to Gray. See the Preface to the Lyri- 
cal Ballads, 1800. The basis of his dislike is Gray's "poetic diction" 
and artificiality. 

256,26-27. " Let ohservation . . . Peru." The Vanity of Human 
Wishes, 1-2. 

256, 35. Drawcansir. A character in the Duke of Buckingham's 
The Rehearsal (1671); a boasting bully. 

257, 8. Bewick, Thomas (1753-1828), a famous engfaver on wood; 
Waterloo, Antoine (1609?-1676?), a French engraver and etcher. 

257,26-27. "he hates conchology." Hazlitt said this, in his Lecfwre 
on the Living Poets, in his Lectures on the English Poets. 

257,31-32. "Where one for sense . . . time." Samuel Butler, 
Hudibras, II, 29-30. 

258, 13-14. "take the good . . . us " Plautus, Rudens, IV, vii. 
258, 21. " Lord Byron we have called." In the chapter on Lord 

Byron in The Spirit of the Age: "His lordship, as a poet, is a little 
headstrong and self-willed, a spoiled child of nature and fortune." 



HAMLET 305 

Hamlet 

This essay in its first form appeared in the Morning Chronicle of 
March 14, 1814, and was called forth by the presentation of Hamlet 
by Edmund Kean. It was reprinted in Characters of Shakespeare's 
Plays, 1817. 

260, 3. that famous soliloquy. Hamlet, iii, 1, 56-88. 

260. 4. gave the advice to the players, iii, 2, 1-50. 

260, 4-5. this goodly frame, ii, 2, 304-323. 

260, 9. grave-diggers, v, l, 1-240. 

260, 12. he that was mad. v, i, 103-104. 

260, 25. "too much i' th' sun." i, 2, 67. 

260, 28-29. " the pangs of despised love." iii, 1, 72. 

262, 1-2. "the outward pageants." Cf. i, 2, 86. 

262, 2. "we have that within." i, 2, 85. 

262, 19-20. where he kills Polonius. iii, 4. 

262, 20. alters the letters, iv, 6; v, 2, 49-53. 

262, 30. " that has no relish of salvation in it." iii, 3, 92. 

263, 9-43. How all occasions . . . worth." iv, 4, 32-66. 

264, 13-14. '■ that noble and liberal casuist." This appears to be 
an imperfect recollection of Charles Lamb's reference to the old Eng- 
lish dramatists as "those noble and liberal casuists," in Characters of 
Dramatic Writers Contemporary with Shakespeare {Thomas Middleton 
and William Rowley). 

264, 16. Whole Duty of Man, 1659. An ethical treatise of un- 
known authorship. It is among Lydia Languish's books in Sheri- 
dan's The Rivals. 

264, 17. The Academy of Compliments; or, the whole Art of Courtship, 
being the rarest and most exact way of wooing a Maid or Widow, by the 
way of Dialogue or complimental Expression. London, no date. Later 
editions appeared in 1655 and 1669. 

264, 21. " license of the time," Cf. Timon of Athens, v, 4, 4-5, 

" You have gone and filled the time 
With all licentious measures." 
"his fathers spirit . . . arms." i, 2, 255. 
I loved Ophelia." v, 1, 292-294. 
"Sweets to the sweet . . . grave." v, 1, 266. 
" rose of May." iv, 5, 157. 

265, 32. his advice to Laertes, i, 3, 55-81. 

265 35-36. "There is a willow . . . stream." iv, 7, 167. 

266, 1. his advice to the King and Queen, ii, 2, 86-169. 

263, 16. Mr. Kemble. John Philip Kemble (1757-1823), a cele- 
brated tragedian, popular as Hamlet, Brutus, and Coriolanus. 

266, 19. "a wave o- th- sea." The Winter's Tale, iv, 4, 141. 

266, 24. Kean, Edmund (1787-1833), a celebrated actor, noted 
for his brilliant presentation of Shakespeare's characters. He was 
deeply admired by Hazlitt. 



264, 


35-36. 


265, 


6-8. ' 


265, 


11-14. 


265, 


19-20. 



ADVERTISEMENTS 



ENGLISH POETRY 

Arnold, Matthew — Select Poems, edited by E. E. Hale, Jr. .72 
Sohrab and Rustum and The Forsaken Merman, edited by 

J. H. Castleman 28 

Browning, Robert — Select Poems, edited by Richard Burton .72 

Four Dramas, edited by Arlo Bates 72 

Introduction to Browning, by Hiram Corson 1.20 

Burns, Robert — Select Poems, edited by A. J. George 80 

Chaucer, Geoffrey — Selections from The Canterbury 

Tales, etc., edited by C. G. Child : 80 

Coleridge, S. T. — ^ Select Poems, edited by A. J. George .72 
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, edited by A. J. George .32 
Drtden — -Palamon and Arcite, edited by W. H. Crawshaw .28 
AH for Love and The Spanish Friar, edited by Wilham 

Strunk, Jr .72 

GoLDSivnTH, Oliver — The Traveller and The Deserted Village, 

edited by Rose M. Barton 28 

The Good Natured Man and She Stoops to Conquer, edited 

by Austin Dobson 72 

Lyrics — Early Sixteenth Century Lyrics, edited by F. M. 

Padelford 72 

Macaulay, T. B. — Lays of Ancient Rome, edited by Martha 

H. Shackf ord .' 28 

Milton, John — Select Poems, edited by Albert Perry Walker .60 

Minor Poems, edited by Albert Perry Walker 28 

Paradise Lost, Books I and II, with portions of later books, 

edited by Albert Perry Walker 48 

Pope, Alexander — Translation of the Iliad, i, vi, xxii, xxiv, 

edited by Paul Shorey 28 

Scott, Walter — The Lady of the Lake, edited by L. D. Syle .36 
Shelley, P. B. — Select Poems, edited by George E. Woodberry .72 

Prometheus Unbound, edited by Vida D. Scudder 72 

The Cenci, edited by George E. Woodberry 72 

Swinburne, A. C. — ^ Select Poems, edited by W. M. Payne . .72 

Mary Stuart, edited by W. M. Payne 72 

Tennyson, Alfred — Select Poems, edited by Archibald 

. MacMechan ; 72 

Enoch Arden and the two Locksley Halls, edited by C. S. 

Brown 28 

Idylls of the King (Five Idylls), edited by Arthur Beatty . .28 

The Princess, edited by Andrew J. George .40 

Wordsworth, William — Poems, edited by A. J. George. ... .80 

Prefaces and Essays, edited by Andrew J. George .60 

The Prelude, edited by Andrew J. George .80 

D. C. HEATH & CO., Boston, New York, Chicago 



DRAMATIC LITERATURE 

/EscHTLUS — The Tragedies, translated by E, H. Plumptre $1.00 
Beaumont — The Knight of the Burning Pestle and A King 

and No King, edited by Raymond M. Alden 72 

Beaumont and Fletcher — The Maid's Tragedy and Phi- 

laster, edited by Ashley H. Thomdike .72 

Browning — A Blot in the 'Scutcheon, Colombe's Birthday, A 

Soul's Tragedy, and In a Balcony, edited by Arlo Bates .72 
Chapman — All Fools and The Gentleman Usher, edited by 

T. M. Parrott .72 

Bussy D'Ambois and The Revenge of Bussy D'Ambois, 

edited by F. S. Boas .72 

Davenant — Love and Honour and The Siege of Rhodes, 

edited by J. W. Tupper v,. . . . . . .72 

Drtden — All for Love and The Spanish Friar, edited by W 

Strunk, Jr a . 72 

Farquhar — The Recruiting Officer and The Beaux' Strata- 
gem, edited by L.-A. Strauss 72 

Ford — 'Tis Pity and Broken Heart, edited by S. P. Sherman .72 
Gascoigne — Supposes and Jocasta, edited by J. W. Cunhffe . .72 
Goldsmith — The Good Natured Man and She Stoops to 

Conquer, edited by Austin Dobson. .r. - .72 

Jonson — Eastward Ho and The Alchemist, edited^by F.'E. 

Schelling : . : ......'. .72 

Sejanus, edited by W. D. Briggs .72 

The Poetaster and (Dekker's) Satiromastix, edited by J. 

H. Penniman '72 

LiLLO — The London Merchant and Fatal Curiosity, edited by 

A. W. Ward -72 

Middleton and Rowley — The Spanish Gypsy and All's 

Lost by Lust, edited by E. C. Morris -72 

Otwat — The Orphan and Venice Preserved, edited by C. F. 

McClumpha -72 

Robertson — -Society and Caste, edited by T. E. Pemberton -72 
Shakespeare — The Arden edition. General editor, C. H. 

Herford. Each play -^^ 

Introduction to Shakespeare, by Hiram Corson 1-^^ 

Shelley — Prometheus Unbound, edited by Vida D. Scudder -72 

The Cenci, edited by George E. Woodberry -72 

Sophocles — ^The Tragedies, translated by E. H. Plumptre l-^O 

Swinburne — 'Mary Stuart, edited by W. M. Payne -72 

Webster — The White Devil and The Duchess of Malfi, 

edited by M. W. Sampson -72 

D. C. HEATH & CO., Boston, New York, Chicago 



Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process, 
Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: April 2009 

PreservationTechnologies 

A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 

111 Thomson Park Drive 
Cranberry Township, PA 16066 
(724)779-2111 



